


Dihydrogen Monoxide

by MathClassWarfare



Series: This Ain’t No Party [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Canon Related, Canonical Character Death, Fluff and Angst, Gambling, Grief/Mourning, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Missing Scene, POV Prompto Argentum, References to Depression, Spies & Secret Agents, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-10-31 01:15:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17839604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MathClassWarfare/pseuds/MathClassWarfare
Summary: They say the human body is 60 percent water.—This follows the plot of the game, after the events of Chapter 9. It mostly focuses on what happens in the spaces between what we see onscreen. There are many tears.





	1. Steam

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [covenant](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17637284) by [MagitekUnit05953234](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagitekUnit05953234/pseuds/MagitekUnit05953234). 
  * Inspired by [i wanna be the place you call your home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15039200) by [earlgrey_milktea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgrey_milktea/pseuds/earlgrey_milktea). 
  * Inspired by [The Way They Were](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9540920) by [Asidian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/pseuds/Asidian). 



> I think Prompto's parents are Niflheim spies, and it comes up in this story. My fic that focuses on the Argentums is [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16082483).

_~Altissia~_

Somewhere, a clock is ticking. It’s the only thing Prompto can hear over his own breathing.

_Tick, tock, tick, tock._

He studies the rug on the floor—thick, squishy pile in a muddy kind of green. 

He sits on his hands. He tries not to think. 

With a creak from one of the beds, he’s up on his feet and putting on a smile. Even if Ignis can’t see it, he can probably hear the difference. 

“Hey Iggy! How was your nap?” 

Prompto crosses the room and fills a glass with water. 

“Fine. My headache seems to have let up a bit.” 

“That’s good!”

Ignis swings his legs over the edge of the bed, and sits up. He reaches a hand out to pat at the end table, as his expression betrays mounting frustration. 

“Hey, let me help!” Prompto rushes to his friend’s side, setting down the water before picking up Ignis’s sunglasses. “Here they are.”

“Thank you, Prompto.” Ignis sips the water and clears his throat. “Has he awoken?” 

Prompto catches himself shaking his head, and takes a sharp breath. “Not yet.” 

He just left the other room, where Noctis is lying. Out cold since they found him at the altar with Ignis.

Prompto still can’t believe they made it out of there—that he was somehow able to carry Noctis, even though they’re about the same size. It was like a feat of hysterical strength. Prompto remembers hearing stories about parents lifting up cars to save their kids. It must have been something like that. He can hardly remember. It’s all a blur of crashing waves and barely-contained panic—flying debris and fierce love. 

Ignis stands. “I will sit with him.” 

Prompto stands too, reaching out his arm. “Here, I’ll walk you over there.”

“No need.” Ignis shakes his head. “Thank you, but I can manage.”

“Oh. Okay.” Prompto’s eyes sweep the room, looking for some way to be useful. They fall on a pile of clothes in an open suitcase. “I’ll do the laundry then.” 

Laundry. Of course that makes him think of Noctis. 

His best friend won’t wake up no matter how many times Prompto begs him to, whispering in his ear and dampening the pillowcase. 

He shakes it off, reminds himself to think positive, and closes up the suitcase.

“I have my phone. Call if you need me!”

—

Prompto greets one of the hotel staff, Portia, who is unloading a bundle of sheets from an industrial dryer. She’s given up arguing with him when he insists on doing things himself. Instead, she points him to a couple of washing machines that he can use, and tells him to help himself to detergent.

Prompto knows they’re short-staffed. A lot of people haven’t returned to the area yet after the evacuation. He also feels weird about having people clean up after him. This was an early sore spot in his friendship with Noctis, because it seemed like the prince had no problem letting Ignis do everything for him. Now, Prompto knows it’s a little more complicated than that.

He’s in the middle of sorting when Gladio appears in the doorway, a paper bag of groceries cradled in one arm.

“Afternoon, Portia.” He tips his chin up to the housekeeper, who responds with a small wave. 

To Prompto, he says, “Iggy just texted. Noct’s awake.” 

“Wha?” Prompto drops his armful of clothes and freezes in a moment of indecision.

“Go on, dear,” Portia chides. “Let me take care of it for once. It _is_ my job you know.” 

“Okay.” He fumbles with his wallet and pulls out a wad of gil—hopefully enough for a decent tip—and gives it to her. “Thank you!” 

“Thank _you,_ ” she laughs.

—

The elevator just isn’t moving fast enough. Prompto can’t help the anxious thigh-drumming as he watches the numbers light up.

“Take it easy, kid. He’s not going anywhere.” 

“I… know that.” He folds his arms to keep them still.

When they get to their floor, he just barely controls the urge to run ahead. 

They cross paths with Ignis in the hall. His expression is grave.

“I just gave him the news.” 

He knows, then. Poor Noctis.

Prompto opens the door, trying to make as little noise as possible, and peeks his head in. 

“Noct?”

An almost unfamiliar voice—wet and hoarse—answers him. “Come in.”

Noctis is sitting up in the bed, one hand in a tight fist, the other resting on the open notebook he shared with Lady Lunafreya.

Prompto chokes on a sob, as it occurs to him once again that he’ll never get to meet her. 

“I’m so sorry, Noct.”

He goes to Noctis’s side and puts an arm around him. Noctis just sits there, eyes on the sylleblossom pressed in the pages of his notebook—an unmoving ball of tension and grief.

Gladio crouches down in front of him. “Hey. It’s good to have you back.”

Noctis looks up at his shield, who asks, “Do you have the ring?” 

Noctis uncurls his fingers, and there it sits. The Ring of the Lucii. 

Prompto shivers involuntarily, and squeezes Noctis a little harder. He doesn’t know much about the ring, but he knows enough to be intimidated. He knows that it means power, and sacrifice.

Noctis quickly closes his fist again. He doesn’t say anything.

Gladio nods. “Good.”

The door opens and Ignis rejoins them, a bottle of water in his hand. 

“You must be thirsty, Noct. Take this, please.” 

With another glance at the blue flower, Noctis lifts his hand to accept the bottle. After a long drink, he finally speaks. “Thanks, Iggy.” 

Ignis gives Noctis a gentle smile, and sits on his other side. Noctis exhales—finally releasing some tension—and shifts just slightly in that direction. 

Prompto lets go of his shoulder, and tries to squash the hurt he’s feeling.

“I’ll, uh, make us some sandwiches.” 

He takes the bag of groceries to the sitting area of this luxurious hotel room (they’ve set it up as a makeshift kitchen) and assembles lunch on the coffee table. 

Prompto tells himself he’s being stupid. Noctis just lost one of his closest friends. He just found out that Ignis got hurt protecting him, and that he’s blind now. Prompto’s feelings are not real high on the list of priorities. If Noctis doesn’t need him right now, it’s fine. He’ll be fine.

He can hear his friends speaking in low voices, but can’t make out what they’re saying. He tells himself that they’re not talking about him. Why would they be talking about him? They’re not.

Gladio helps Noctis to the couch, and they eat their sandwiches. 

Prompto can’t read Noctis’s expression. He looks so contained. They’re sitting right next to each other, but it feels like Noctis is so far away.

He doesn’t know what to do.

—

That night, he wakes to the sound of muffled crying. Noctis is curled up on the other side of the bed, face pressed into his pillow, shaking. 

Prompto rolls over and scoots closer. Carefully, he reaches out to touch Noctis’s arm.

This time, Noctis grabs his hand and tugs. A wave of relief washes over Prompto, as he slides closer and wraps an arm tightly around his best friend. Noctis presses back into his embrace, and finally lets himself unravel.

_~Aboard the Magna Fortia, somewhere in the Succarpe region~_

Ever since he was a kid, Prompto has wanted to travel by train. Not the subway or a commuter train—they had those in Insomnia—but a real cross-country passenger train with sleeper cars, a dining car, and big windows that wrap around the top so you can see more of the passing countryside.

Now he’s finally doing it, and it totally sucks.

Prompto is exhausted, and he’s not alone. It seems like just getting to this point has taken everything out of their little group. 

First, they had to come up with a plan. Noctis didn’t want to decide what to do next, he wanted Ignis to decide. But Gladio wanted Noctis to take responsibility, since he’s supposed to be the king now. Somehow, they figured it out, though.

Now that Noctis has the ring and the blessings of three Astrals, they’re sure he can make something happen if he can just get to the crystal. 

So they’re going to Gralea, the capital of the Niflheim Empire. It’s also the country where Prompto was born, but his friends don’t know that.

Once they had a destination, they argued about how to get there. Noctis didn’t want to leave the Regalia behind, but they’ll have to pass through ice and snow, and nobody feels confident enough in their driving skills to handle it. They can’t rely on Ignis for that anymore. 

So they’re taking the train, with Accordan passports from First Secretary Claustra. 

She also managed to get them papers for the car. Not to knock Ignis’s negotiation skills, but that cost an arm and a leg. She said bringing the Regalia was unnecessary. Frivolous, even. Maybe she’s right. Gladio seems to think so. Prompto knows that it’s more than just a car, though. He also thinks she might be just a _little_ ungrateful for everything they did back in Altissia.

It would be really, _really_ nice if Gladio and Noctis could stop fighting now. It’s extra hard to be the cheerleader when everyone is on edge.

Prompto fiddles with his lens. He’s starting to get bored taking pictures of the passing landscape, and they won’t start serving lunch for more than an hour. He wishes someone had warned them that there wasn’t wi-fi on this train. Maybe he would’ve bought a book before they left.

Noctis is still in their room, sleeping or just lying in bed. It’s been several weeks since he woke up to the aftermath of the Empire’s attack on Leviathan. Definitely not enough time to process everything that happened or to mourn Lunafreya, but time is something they don’t have. Still, Prompto is trying to give him as much of it as he can.

He steps into the tiny room and latches the door behind him. Noctis looks up from where he’s been lying and staring at his phone, waiting for some kind of network connection.

“Hey.” Prompto whispers, even though it’s the middle of the day and nobody’s asleep. He crawls into the narrow bunk and curls up behind Noctis. 

“Hey.” Noctis tosses the phone aside, and twists his head to give Prompto an ergonomically-challenging kiss on the corner of the mouth. Prompto laughs and nuzzles the back of Noctis’s neck, breathing in his familiar scent. 

The two of them haven’t been together since before the covenant. It’s been way too long.

Prompto slides his hand down Noctis’s chest and over his stomach, slipping the tips of his fingers into the waistband of Noctis’s shorts. 

When the response he gets is a less-than-encouraging sound from the back of the throat, Prompto pulls his hand away. 

Noctis rolls over to face him, looking embarrassed. “Sorry. I’m just not . . . ”

“No! Don’t apologize.” Prompto pushes Noctis’s bangs aside, so he can see his eyes. “I get it.”

It sucks, but he understands. He knows his best friend is depressed and just needs some time. Prompto tries not to take it personally.

Noctis presses a soft kiss to his lips, and says, “I love you.” It sounds like a reminder.

“I know. Love you too, Noct.”

“I should probably get up, huh?”

“Whatever you want, buddy.”

Noctis nods, so Prompto gets out of his way. He leans on the top bunk and watches while Noctis searches for his flip flops and toiletry bag. He listens to the rhythmic music of the moving train.

Leaving their room, they head in opposite directions. 

—

Nobody would ever accuse Prompto of being a picky eater—especially considering who he hangs out with—but here he is, picking at his food. 

Maybe he built it up too much in his imagination, but they’ve got a kitchen on this train and plenty of cooking stuff. It looks like way more than Ignis has to work with when they’re camping, and look what _he_ can do. Ignis is a wizard though, so that’s probably not a fair comparison. 

He’s not sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this glorified TV dinner. The only thing on the menu. Every single day. 

It’s a good thing they brought snacks along.

The mashed potatoes are fine. It’s hard to mess up mashed potatoes. They’re probably from a box, but whatever. Luckily, there’s a bottle of hot sauce in the dining car. One bottle, for the whole train. It’s not Prompto’s favorite brand, but it’s enough to make the chickatrice nuggets edible. Just barely. He also douses the peas, and physically blocks Noctis’s attempt to add more to his plate, sending a forkful into the air. The cookie just isn’t worth it, so he tosses it to Noctis.

That’s apparently the last straw for Gladio. “Can you two stop throwing food?” he bellows.

Noctis glowers back at him across the table. “What food?”

Prompto forces down a mouthful of peas and tries to disappear into the corner.

It’s slightly menacing how Gladio’s clutching his fork in his fist. 

“You know you sound like a spoiled brat? There are hungry people out there who would love to eat this.”

“They can have it.”

Ignis sighs and rubs at the bridge of his nose. 

Prompto smacks Noctis’s shoulder. “Dude!”

Duly chastised, Noctis mutters, “Sorry . . . too much. I know.” He eats a nugget. “But the solution to global hunger has nothing to do with whether I, personally, eat my vegetables.”

Prompto nods. “Fair.” 

Ignis takes a bite of mashed potatoes, frowning. “It’s certainly a topic to address, after we take back the kingdom.”

“Speaking of,” Gladio interjects, “how’re we doing on that?”

“We’re on our way.” Noctis pauses between each acid-tinged word.

Everybody knows that Gladio’s really talking about the ring, which Noctis hasn’t put on yet. He’s probably scared. He saw first-hand the strain it put on King Regis. He’s also heard stories of what happened to other people who tried and weren’t “worthy.” Even though people have been telling him he’s the Chosen King since he was five, it seems like he doesn’t really believe it.

Prompto squeezes Noctis’s knee under the table. 

“There’s still time,” Ignis assures them. “Noct will take the next step when he’s ready.”

Gladio huffs. “Well you better get ready, and quick. Our time is running out.”

Noctis slides out of the booth. “I’ve lost my appetite. See you guys later.” 

He walks out of the dining car, and the three of them finish eating in silence.

—

“Noct!” Prompto calls out to a slamming door.

“Leave him!” Gladio stomps off the other way.

 _Yeah? Well fuck you very much_ , Prompto thinks, but doesn’t say out loud. 

He sits in the seat across from Ignis, rubbing his face. He was only trying to stop them from ripping each-others’ throats out. To be honest, it mostly just hurt his feelings. 

He doesn’t chase after Noctis because, well, it really sucks that his best friend didn’t seem to notice or care that his shield just shoved Prompto out of the way by his _face_. 

“Are you alright?” Ignis is frowning. He clearly doesn’t like this any more than Prompto does.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he lies. “Need anything? Coffee?”

“Coffee would be lovely, thank you.”

“Coming right up!” He puts on a smile, and heads for the cafe car. 

This is absolute hell.

_~Aboard the Magna Fortia, approaching the Eusciello region~_

Thank the Astrals for Ignis Scientia. 

After a miserable night of camping in the rain, eating beans out of a can, surrounded by the icy silence of Noctis and Gladio’s beef, Prompto was really going to lose it. 

Then Ignis saved the day, and finally got through to them. It seems like those two are getting along now. And thankfully, Noctis isn’t mad at Prompto for refusing to help take photos for that rando in Cartanica. 

Things are finally looking up.

Ignis also reminded everyone that he’s far from helpless, and they shouldn’t treat him like he is. The man has serious skills. He can literally do magic. All Prompto can do is throw the flasks Noctis makes, though he really prefers not to. He’s been caught in the blast radius of enough spells to want to avoid the stuff.

Prompto has got to think of a way to show Ignis how much he appreciates him. He’ll come up with something good. Maybe he could learn how to cook, and surprise him with one of his favorite foods. That could take a really long time though.

He steps out of their room just in time to catch an amazing sight out the wall of windows in the sleeper car. Before his eyes, the landscape is changing from sand dunes to snow drifts. It’s wild. Ignis told him that ever since the Empire killed Shiva, there’s been a permanent blizzard in Niflheim. This must be the edge of it. He can see the ice and snow suspended in the sky just beyond the train tracks, like it’s butting up against an invisible wall. 

Noctis has got to see this. Prompto goes looking for him, to make sure he’s not on his phone, oblivious to the world around him.

As he’s running through the train, he sees Ignis and Gladio. “Hi guys!”

“Blondie! Be careful!” Gladio puts out a protective arm in front of Ignis as Prompto passes them.

In the dining car, he nearly runs past Noctis, who’s looking out the window after all. Good.

“Whoa! There you are, buddy!” 

He catches his breath, then takes in the view again. “Did you see this? It’s unreal!” 

“Yeah.” Noctis’s eyes are wide. “Never seen anything like it. Doesn’t make any sense.”

Prompto wanders to the back of the car to look out at the other side of the tracks. 

Then there’s a shift in Noctis’s voice. He sounds scared as he asks, “What’s going on?”

“It’s a real mystery.” Prompto nods. “I’m not liking that snow cloud. Kind of gives me the chills. Like, who comes up with this stuff? I couldn’t dream something like this if I tried.”

It is scary, but it’s also cool. Prompto sums it up with, “It’s a wondrous world.” And he’s lucky enough to see it with his best friend—though the circumstances admittedly suck.

Prompto turns to smile at Noctis, and wonders why he’s got such a weird look on his face all of a sudden.

_~Somewhere in the Piztala region~_

Everything hurts.

Prompto just fell off the top of a moving train. No, that’s not right. Noctis just _pushed him_ off the top of the train. 

Why did he do that? It doesn’t make any sense. 

An all-too-familiar, nasty little thought is scratching at the back of his mind. It’s trying to tell Prompto that actually, it makes perfect sense. He’s trying, _really_ trying, not to listen. 

It’s hard, though, after what just happened. 

At first, Prompto thought his best friend was just messing around. It quickly became clear that he wasn’t. Now he can’t stop hearing the things Noctis said to him back there, after chasing him through the train.

 _What’re you after, following me around this whole time? It’s all YOUR fault._

The thing is, he’s not wrong. Prompto’s been following Noctis around since they were kids. For years, everyone else has been asking what his angle is. Why not Noctis? 

And maybe it _is_ all his fault. He knew that his parents were Niflheim spies, and he didn’t tell anyone. They could’ve been responsible for the attack on Insomnia. He could’ve been helping them pull it off, without even knowing it. 

Maybe Noctis found out somehow, and that’s why he wanted to kill Prompto.

Or maybe he doesn’t know all that, and Noctis has finally gotten sick of him. 

Or maybe it had something to do with that creepy guy, Ardyn.

When the train stopped, Prompto was hiding in the shower, curled up and crying into his knees. Then he heard explosions and fighting, so he climbed up to the roof to shoot at the attacking Imperials. 

He was still up there when the train started moving again. So was that chancellor. Prompto had Ardyn in his sights when Noctis showed up, called his name, and pushed him. 

The confused look on Noctis’s face as Prompto fell is pretty much all he has to hold on to right now. Just that, and the clothes on his back. 

Somehow, before he hit the ground, he managed to get his legs underneath him. He ran, letting the momentum propel him alongside the tracks, until he tripped and rolled to a stop. Thank gods he remembered to protect his head and neck. He’s actually kind of proud of how well he handled the whole ordeal. Too bad nobody got it on video.

And it’s a good thing the train hadn’t gotten back up to it’s full speed yet. Any faster, and he probably wouldn’t be breathing right now. To be honest, Prompto finds it pretty unbelievable that he survived. Yet here he is.

He shifts onto one side, pulls his phone out of a pocket, and groans. The screen is smashed, of course, and the whole thing is slightly bent. It’s totally unresponsive. 

The potion he had stashed in his pocket also shattered, and it’s soaking into his shirt. That’s probably for the best.

Trying to remember his first-aid training, he checks himself over for injuries. Nothing seems broken. He’s just sore. Very sore. He pushes himself up, stands and takes a step. His right ankle is iffy, but he can walk. 

Up ahead, the tracks lead to Tenebrae, but that’s not where Prompto’s going anymore. Even if he can walk there, his friends—if they’re still even his friends—will be long gone. He’ll meet up with them in Gralea, which means walking through that spooky blizzard. 

He’s definitely not dressed for the weather.

Prompto back-tracks towards the train yard where they’d been stopped earlier. As he hoped, there are a few suitcases scattered on the ground, along with lots of broken glass and other stuff that fell off the train during the Imperial attack. 

There’s not a lot to work with, but he finds a knit hat and a pair of gloves. That’s a start. There’s a few energy bars and a bag of pretzels to eat. He also grabs a lighter and a pack of bobby pins, which might be useful later. 

He might be able to find some winter gear and a phone at the train yard, but it could be dangerous. It looked like an Imperial facility.

He doesn’t have a gun. Noctis smacked it out of his hands, right before he fell. He wonders if he could get it to just materialize, like it usually does when they’re fighting side by side. 

Prompto closes his eyes and holds his breath, his hands in fists. He’s just about to curl open the fingers of his right hand when it hits him—what if he tries and he can’t? What if he’s not connected to Noctis’s magic anymore? 

That would mean Noctis really does hate him. 

He doesn’t want confirmation of that. At least not yet, when everything already hurts so fucking much.

So he stops. He shakes his head, hard and fast. He doesn’t think about his weapons. He’ll just have to stay quiet, and be smart.

He finds cover as he approaches the train yard, keeping low to the ground and moving only when the coast is clear. So far, the only MTs he can see look pretty dead. 

He comes up to a small building and listens below the window, then peers inside. When he doesn’t see or hear anything, he tries the door. It’s unlocked. He enters quickly, heart pounding. Then he slides to the ground, back against the door, to catch his breath. 

“I can do this,” he whispers to himself. 

It must be some kind of break room. There’s an ashtray and a pack of cards on a table, and a clock on the wall. No phone, though. He pockets the cards. 

There’s a couple piles of clothes on the floor. It’s very convenient, but weird. Maybe the Imperials are into strip poker. Prompto is relieved to find a warm coat, snow pants that fit, and a pair of real-deal winter boots.

Now he just has to get out of here, and avoid tangling with any MTs.

After he slips outside, he hears something up ahead and ducks into another building. There’s no phone in this one either, but there is a bank of lockers. He manages to get one of them open, thanks to those bobby pins. It takes awhile though, so he doesn’t bother trying for any more. He takes a gun holster that he finds, in case he comes across a gun later. 

Prompto wonders if it’s ironic that he’s stealing from the Empire using the lock-picking skills he learned from his parents. He can imagine how angry his mother would be if she knew he was taking Niflheim’s meager supplies to serve the greedy Kingdom of Lucis. 

He sneaks his way through the train yard, remembering what he can from the brief training sessions he had with the Crownsguard, and with his family. He only sees one living MT—if they’re even “alive”—but the MT doesn’t see him. He crouches behind a crate and waits for it to leave, then moves quickly on his way. 

Once he’s cleared the train yard, he just has to follow the tracks back the way he came. Back to that weird snow cloud. Back to where Noctis turned on him. 

He takes one last look back in the direction of Lady Lunafreya’s home—a place he’ll probably never get to visit now—and hopes the guys made it there safely. 

Then he takes a deep breath, dries his eyes, and starts walking towards the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to Tumblr user, [@Lokton](https://lokton.tumblr.com) for this excellent [post](https://lokton.tumblr.com/post/165984250833/promptos-journey-click-here-for-larger-map-fell), deducing where Prompto falls off the train and which direction he probably walked, and where he probably found his winter clothes.


	2. Snow

_~First Magitek Production Facility, southeast of Gralea~_

He doesn’t know how he got here.

He’d been so cold, and so tired from fighting against the wind—the thick powder catching at his boots, and the ache that cut all the way to his bones. He’d been at it for _days_ , and didn’t even know if he was still going in the right direction. His stomach was killing him because he didn’t have his meds. Then his legs gave out, and he fell face down in the snow.

The last thing Prompto remembers is thinking he was going to die out there and nobody would ever find his body. He was only vaguely aware of somebody else being there. He thought it was his mind playing tricks on him. They must have been real though. They must have rescued him.

It’s a round room, sterile but disorganized. It looks like some kind of control room or maybe a lab. Fear grips him as he realizes it’s probably an Imperial facility.

As he pushes himself up off the floor he notices that they took his wristband. _Assholes._ Prompto doesn’t like looking at the barcode tattoo. It reminds him that he’s from Niflheim. He’s sure that’s why they did it. 

He checks himself over to see what else they took. Nothing is missing from his pockets. That’s good. He’s still got those bobby pins. He opens his wallet. No cash, but he’s pretty sure he already spent everything he had on beer and tips on the train. He’s still got his drivers license, transit pass, library card, and student ID. 

_Oh shit._

His family photo is gone. Whoever put him in here knows about his parents. 

Do they think he’s a defector? Will they treat him worse than if they thought he was Lucian? Are they going to bring him to his mom and dad? Are his folks _here?_

He steadies himself against a console, and takes several deep breaths. He has to keep it together if he’s going to get out of here and reunite with the guys.

His eyes dart around the room and he spots a medicine bottle sitting next to a bottle of water. It’s the same prescription he takes for his stomach. His name isn’t on the bottle, just a string of numbers that he recognizes because they’re tattooed on his wrist. It’s really fucking creepy. He takes his pills for the first time in several days. It’s probably a bad idea, but he’s desperate.

He starts opening drawers, and finds some potions and a camera. His Lokton is still on the train with the rest of his stuff, and thank the gods for that. It definitely wouldn’t have survived the fall. Maybe Noctis can sell it for a few extra gil.

There’s a bunch of files lying around, and an old newspaper with an article about some smug-looking scientist with an ugly beard. There’s also an old-school hand-held tape player with a tape inside. He plays it, and hears a scientist talking about magitek and daemons. It’s probably the same guy from the article.

Why would someone leave all this old stuff lying around? There’s something weird going on, and he needs to stay calm so he can figure it out. 

The first step is getting out of this room. 

Next to the door is a flat panel that must be some kind of touch screen. He reaches his hand up to see if he can operate it, and it scans his barcode. _Shit._

A robotic lady’s voice says, “Scanning production code. Unit 05953234 confirmed.”

 _What the fuck?_

“Warning, this unit has been compromised. Initiating retrieval of compromised unit.”

What does this mean? Is he the ‘unit’?

He tries not to panic, and backs away from the door. Then he hears someone behind him—someone smarmy.

“She still remembers you, after all these years.”

It’s that creep, Ardyn! Without thinking, Prompto holds up his hands to summon his weapons. It’s just as he’d feared. Nothing happens.

He has a hard time following what the chancellor is saying to him, because he’s trying to process the fact that he’s really, truly cut off from Noctis.

Among some other cryptic shit, Ardyn says that this place is called the First Magitek Production Facility. Then he hands Prompto his gun, and tells him he should go talk to Chief Besithia—whoever that is.

Just as suddenly as he’d appeared, the chancellor is gone.

Prompto’s still puzzling over why Ardyn gave him his gun back, when he spots another weapon. It’s like a blunt sword or a club, and folds up on itself. It should be useful if he needs to knock somebody out. Too bad he didn’t have it five minutes ago. 

He takes another deep breath to steady himself and moves through the door. He cannot freak out right now. 

He moves carefully through the hallways, peering around each corner before taking a turn or crossing an intersection. When he encounters an MT he shoots if he has to, but tries as much as possible to sneak up from behind and take them out quietly. Ezio Auditore would be so proud. 

They’ve got _so many_ Ebony machines in here. If he wasn’t completely broke, he would buy a can to give Ignis. Prompto takes a picture with his stolen camera, to at least remember to tell him about it. That is, if they ever speak again.

They’ve also got a ton of weapons racks. He’s never actually shot a submachine gun before this, but how hard can it be? Not very hard, he finds out, mowing down a hallway full of troopers in a very un-stealthy spray of bullets. He uses sniper rifles—crouching between crates and holding his breath—to take out solitary MTs across cavernous rooms. At one point, he picks up an actual bazooka to blow up a hulking magitek armor.

The halls are littered with boxes of files and books—sometimes on shelves, sometimes stacked on the floor. He wonders if he can learn anything more about what his parents were doing. Whenever he has a moment to breathe and doesn’t hear anyone coming, he digs through paperwork. He looks through eight-year-old financial ledgers, invoices from vending machine suppliers, and rosters of new recruits with no familiar names—too recent to include his folks. He can’t find a single clue about them.

Instead, he finds plenty of information about Verstael Besithia, and what he’s been doing in this facility. Somebody—probably Ardyn—left little tapes scattered around. Prompto learns that the mad scientist was experimenting on his own people, cloning himself and messing with the babies, and trying to cheat death. 

His heart just about stops when he learns that the magitek troopers and infant clones have barcodes, just like he does. Then he finds out that 20 years ago, some Lucian stole a baby from this very facility. He wants to tell himself that there’s no way it’s him, but echoes of Ardyn saying ‘home, sweet home’ ring in his mind. 

After fighting his way through another cavernous room, his path is blocked by a massive, round door. Next to the door, there’s a control panel. It looks just like the one in the room where he woke up. 

He doesn’t want to do it, but there’s really no other option besides scanning his wrist again. When the door twists open, he chokes back a sob. 

_What does it mean?_

Prompto forces himself to move forward, down a terrifying staircase, through another massive door, and into a living nightmare.

The room is sinister—dimly lit by the rows of glowing blue tanks. Inside each one floats a hairless, naked person with black ooze coiling around their feet. Prompto walks up to one of the tanks for a closer look. The person looks like him. They all do. They’re identical. They’re clones.

He reaches out to touch the glass. “Who . . . What am I?” he breathes.

His head is buzzing. He’s made of tv static. His ears fill with it. He thinks he’s going to pass out, and slides down to his knees. He’s breathing too fast and his chest is tight. This is bad. Prompto knows he’s having a panic attack, but knowing doesn’t make it any better. He rests his forehead against the glass and looks at the clone’s feet. They have the same toes. He closes his eyes and focuses on taking deep, slow breaths. _Breathe in, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four. In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four._

When the noise in his head subsides and he feels a little less like his heart is about to explode, Prompto returns to his feet. Through the window at the back of this cursed room, he can see more tanks. They’re hooked up to some kind of awful machine, and almost completely full of that swirling black liquid. He also sees the maniac responsible for all of this, talking to Ardyn.

Prompto is absolutely seething with bewildered, heartbroken rage. He crouches low behind a console, and moves in closer.

_~ A lakeside camp, east of Gralea~_

He’s watching the dancing flames of the campfire when Aranea returns. Prompto didn’t really expect her to come back. Maybe she stepped away to take a piss in the woods or something. He doesn’t ask. He’s honestly kind of scared of her. 

She’s so badass. After he shot that monster Besithia, she swooped in and scraped him off the floor, and then fought off daemons by herself so he could get away. He’s more than a little embarrassed that he had to be rescued. He’s such a damsel.

“Feeling better?” She sits on the ground, arranging her long coat underneath herself.

“Yeah, thanks to you.” He pushes up his sleeve to look at the smooth, forever-branded skin of his right wrist. Aranea probably thinks he’s pretty stupid for believing he could get rid of the barcode so easily—though that’s not exactly what he was thinking when he burnt himself. Anyway, she would be right. He is stupid.

“I’m not talking about that.” She puts her hand on the top of his head and shakes him gently. “I’m talking about what’s going on in here.”

He laughs, and if it sounds like he’s choking back tears, that’s because he is. “Uh.” He wipes his nose with his sleeve. “I dunno.”

“Okay, kid. I get it. You’ve been through a lot today.” She lets go of him, and pulls an energy bar out her pocket. “You eat anything yet?”

Prompto nods. “Yeah. I ate.” 

“Good.” She pulls a flask out of another pocket, and holds it out to him.

He accepts it, with the ghost of a smile. Whatever it is, it’s strong. It burns on the way down and warms his chest.

“Thanks,” he rasps, passing the flask back to Aranea. She replies with a nod.

They sit in silence awhile, while she chews on her rations and Prompto turns over his thoughts. 

Eventually, he clears his throat and asks, “Hey, I’m just curious, why are you being so nice to me?”

She puffs an incredulous breath out her nose, and smiles at him. “Nice? Did you already forget about when I yelled at you? Do I need to do it again?”

“Hey, now. You won’t hear me complaining about a beautiful woman knocking me on my back and ordering me around.” Prompto grins.

She shakes her head, and retorts through soft laughter, “Can it, shortcake. You’re too young for me. And anyway, aren’t you with His Highness?”

Prompto stops smiling. “Where’d you hear that?” 

Aranea furrows her brow at him. “Like I said earlier, he was distraught about losing you. It’s kind of obvious.” With a half-smile, she adds, “That, and your friend Ignis confirmed it. Apparently, the two of you aren’t very good at keeping your secret love affair a secret.”

“Oh. Well. Yeah…” he finally admits.

Noctis and Prompto were already pretty sure Ignis and Gladio knew, but they’d managed to not actually talk about it with their friends. They’re both experts at avoiding difficult conversations. 

With renewed exasperation, Aranea says, “He sent me to find you, okay? He obviously still cares about you. How many times do I have to say this?” 

Prompto presses his hands against his face, and looks at the fire. Should he let himself believe that Noctis doesn’t hate him? His breath catches— and when the tears come, he can’t stop them. He buries his head in his arms, and hears Aranea groan.

After a moment, she pats him on the back and says, “There, there.” 

Now he’s _really_ embarrassed.

Once he’s able to collect himself, Prompto straightens up and wipes his eyes with a sleeve, muttering, “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Another drink?” Aranea hands him her flask.

Prompto nods, and takes a swig.

“What you need, kid, is a distraction.” She drinks, and wipes a thumb across the corner of her mouth. “Too bad we can’t play cards.”

“Oh!” He perks up, digging in his pockets. “I have cards, somewhere.” There are few things Prompto loves more than giving people what they want. 

“Nice.” 

Aranea retrieves a sleeping bag and lays it on the ground between them. Then she asks, “Have you ever played Solheim rat fuck?”

Prompto laughs. “No. What?!” 

“It’s easy.” She shuffles the cards and deals them into two piles.

“Draw your top card, and put it here.” They both do that.

“No face, no ace, so we draw again.” 

This is starting to sound familiar.

Aranea puts down a 2 of hearts, on top of Prompto’s 2 of clubs. She’s saying, “Okay now—” when he slaps the pile.

“Hey I know this game!” Prompto gathers up the cards he just won, and slips them to the bottom of his deck.

“Yeah? I heard they didn’t play it in Lucis.”

“I used to play with my dad, but he calls it ‘Slap.’” A dull ache fogs around Prompto’s heart. “Sometimes my mom would play too.”

“That’s right. Your folks are from here.” Aranea places a 6 of hearts on top of Prompto’s 5.

“Yeah.” Prompto’s doesn’t notice when he puts down a 7 of clubs, making three in a row. 

Aranea slaps the pile and catches him off-guard.

“You know, I met your dad once,” she says off-handedly, as she collects her cards and starts the next round. 

Prompto freezes, with a card in his hand. “What?”

“Yeah, back when everybody was still acting like there was going to be a peace treaty. He seemed like a decent guy. Heart in the right place, and all that.”

Not sure what to do with this information, Prompto asks, “Wh-where? Did you meet him?”

“Hey, play your card. We met in Altissia, at the Totomostro.” She smiles. “Very clandestine.”

Prompto loses another round because he’s distracted. He wants to know everything, but he also really doesn’t. 

“What . . . did he tell you?” 

Aranea starts another round. “He didn’t tell me anything, actually. I was there to deliver a message to him.”

“Oh . . . uh, doubles.” Prompto slaps the cards. She totally gave him that one.

“Not everybody agreed with the plan to attack the Crown City, you know.” Aranea’s expression is kind. “In the end, the pragmatists lost that fight.” 

“So, you didn’t agree with it?” He’d been hoping, since he likes her. 

She shakes her head. “Saw no sense in it. We were winning the war. We would be getting lots of new territory that isn’t buried under a sheet of ice—farmland.”

She puts down a jack of diamonds. “And there’s money to be made, with Lucis as a trading partner.”

“And my dad?” Prompto asks with a voice that’s quavering, despite his best efforts.

“Listen,” Aranea exhales, “I just gave him some information. I don’t know what, if anything, he did with it.”

Prompto’s heart sinks. He would feel a lot better if he knew his dad wasn’t part of the attack on their home. 

“What I can tell you, is that somebody thought he would listen. That’s why they sent me to talk to him.” 

Prompto nods. That’s something at least. “Thanks, Aranea, for telling me. I know this kinda thing is a big deal.” 

“Don’t mention it.” She lets him win another round. “Anyway, I’m not with the Empire anymore, so who cares?”

He’s tempted to ask her why she went through with it, if she didn’t support the attack. Why didn’t she defect sooner? He wants to stay on her good side, though, so he doesn’t. Maybe she didn’t really have any choice. 

Prompto wonders if the guys would give him the same benefit of the doubt.

_~ On the frozen tundra, east of Gralea ~_

Snowmobiles are _fun._

Prompto picks up speed, heading in the direction Aranea pointed him before she returned to her ship. A gently rolling blanket of powder stretches out as far as he can see, and it’s so satisfying to cut fresh tracks in it. The few trees are easy to avoid. It’s a sunny day, and the sky is clear and blue. 

He’s still riding on the adrenaline of their fight with the Empire’s ‘new model,’ an impossibly massive magitek worm. Besithia named the thing ‘Immortalis,’ like it couldn’t be killed. But Prompto took it out anyway, with Aranea’s help. He ended up having to kill that madman twice. And now he’s finally gone. 

Prompto thinks about all the others like him. The ones that didn’t escape. The ones that he and the guys have killed. There were so, _so_ many of them. There will certainly be more. 

He wonders what will happen to the ones still in the tanks. He didn’t do anything to help them. He didn’t even know how. How long can they possibly survive now that the mad scientist and all the lab workers are gone? Maybe it would’ve been kinder to blow the whole place up. 

To fend off his growing guilt, Prompto plays around with the idea that he got revenge for all of them, and not just for himself. Then, with a dull crack, the ground falls out from under him.

He didn’t even realize he was crossing a lake because it was covered in snow. No wonder there weren’t any trees. Now his snowmobile is gone, and he’s underwater. 

He fights the overwhelming urge to inhale, and swims to the surface. Then he tests the strength of the ice before pulling himself out on his belly, legs kicking behind him. Once he’s free from the unbelievably cold water, he rolls away and sprawls flat on his back, gasping for breath. 

Prompto can’t help but laugh. After surviving everything Imperial magiteknology could throw at him, he’s still just going to freeze to death in the middle of fucking nowhere. It’s too perfect. 

He’s thinking that the sun is very bright but not at all warm, when a fedora-wearing silhouette looms over him, blocking the light.

“Fuck . . . you,” Prompto spits out through chattering teeth. 

“Come, now,” Ardyn chides. “Is that any way to speak to an ally?” 

“You’re. Not.” 

The chancellor clucks his tongue and shakes his head. “So ungrateful.” He circles around. “After all I’ve done for you and your friends.” He crouches down beside Prompto and brushes a gloved hand against his cheek. “Perhaps I should let you freeze after all.” 

Prompto twists away. “ _Dontouchme,_ ” he slurs.

“It’s your choice.” Ardyn stands. “You can come with me to my ship, where it’s warm and dry. Or you can die here.” 

Prompto knows that’s bullshit. He doesn’t have any choice, and he hates it. He’s going to have to take his chances with the bad guy. 

He slowly makes his way to his feet. “Fine.”

“That’s a good lad.” Ardyn holds out his arm, but Prompto shakes his head in an emphatic ‘no.’

He can still walk on his own, at least.

The drop ship is flanked with MTs. When he sees them, Prompto’s fingers itch for his gun. That makes him feel guilty now.

As they approach, Ardyn stops and gestures towards the entrance with a flourish. “After you.”

“ _Nuhuh._ ” Prompto is shivering violently now, but he’s not going to let that creep get behind him. 

“I thought you might like some privacy while you change.”

He has a point, so Prompto steps into the ship, looking back over his shoulder at the chancellor, whose smile is very unsettling. 

“And don’t worry about _them,_ ” Ardyn calls out, “It’s nothing they haven’t seen before!”

The interior of the ship is sparse and open. There are so many MTs inside, just standing there. One of them is holding a fluffy bathrobe that Prompto assumes is for him. Another has a blanket draped over one arm, and they’re holding a mug of something Prompto knows better than to drink. 

He takes the robe and blanket, quietly thanking the MTs, and wonders if they can understand him. He can’t tell if they’re even looking at him with their glowing red eyes. Their faces are unchanging masks. 

He wraps himself in the robe, puts his gun holster back on and lays out his clothes to dry. Then he sits with his back in a corner—tucked under the blanket and terrified. At least he’s starting to warm up. 

After a few minutes, he hears slow, sauntering footsteps. “Are we decent in here?” Ardyn calls out.

Prompto glowers at the chancellor as he enters the ship—hatch closing behind him.

“I see you found the robe. It’s one of my favorites.” Ardyn takes off his hat and rests it on the head of an MT. “Rather big on you, but no matter.” 

Then he takes the mug from the MT still holding it. “ _Oh,_ ” he laments. “You didn’t want your cocoa?” He has a sip. “I’m hurt. You still don’t trust me, when I’ve been nothing but a perfect gentleman.”

Prompto’s blood is boiling now. He shouts, “You helped that madman with his twisted experiments!” 

Ardyn crouches in front of him. “I suppose I did help Chief Besithia. A bit.” He shrugs. “But I also helped _you_ to kill him.”

“No! You didn’t!” Prompto barks back. “Aranea helped me.”

Ardyn laughs. “And who introduced you to the former commodore, _hmmm?_ ”

“And you killed Lady Lunafreya!” 

Ardyn pouts. “She was dying already, the poor thing. I put her out of her misery.” Then a shadow passes over his face and he snarls, “You should have seen her.” 

Prompto recoils at this, and rests a hand on his gun. “A-and I don’t know what you did to Noct. To make him—” 

Ardyn cuts him off with a condescending sigh. “It’s always easier, isn’t it? Blaming your relationship problems on someone else?”

Prompto _cannot_ let this guy fuck with his head. He sniffs to hold back tears.

Ardyn offers a handkerchief. It’s embroidered with the letters ALC, in violet thread. It occurs to Prompto that these are Noctis’s mom’s initials, and he hopes that’s just a coincidence. He considers taking it, just to fill it up with snot and then give it back, but Prompto’s own mother didn’t raise him to stick strange handkerchiefs in his face.

Instead, he asks, “Where are you taking me?”

The chancellor perks up at this. “To Gralea, of course! That _is_ where you were headed, is it not?”

Prompto has a sinking feeling. Maybe he made the wrong decision, and hypothermia was the better bet. 

He hopes the guys will be able to meet up with him quickly.


	3. Blood, Sweat and Tears

_~ Zegnautus Keep, Gralea~_

It’s hard to sleep sitting up in a metal chair, but it’s the only furniture in the room, and the floor is gross.

Prompto rests his face in his hands, trying to block out the fluorescent light that never shuts off. Sometimes it flickers. It does that a lot, actually.

With a crackle, Ardyn’s voice pipes in through a speaker near the ceiling. 

“Rise and shine, my boy! It’s a new day.” 

Prompto groans and cuffs his hands over his ears, but it’s no use. 

“Today we’re serving… _drumroll please_ … beans!” 

It’s always beans. Cold, and from the can. Just like on the saddest camping trips of Prompto’s short life. 

The cell door swings open, and an MT marches in with an open can in one hand and a spoon in the other. Prompto looks up at them.

“Please . . . can you help me?” 

The MT doesn’t move. 

Prompto stands, and leans closer. “I mean, fuck him! Why do you all just do everything he says?”

The MT doesn’t move.

“Don’t you…” he throws up his hands. “Don’t you, like, _want_ anything? For yourself?” 

Over the intercom, Ardyn vocalizes his disgust, then says, “Kindly shut him up.”

Then the MT moves. 

They smack Prompto hard across the face with the back of their left hand—the one with the beans—which sends him flying backwards, knocking over the chair on his way to the floor. 

“ _Thank_ you!” Ardyn sings.

The MT sets down the fork and the now-half-empty can on the ground. They lock the door behind them, and march away.

That really hurt. 

Prompto’s been trying to talk to the MTs for days. He was starting to think they might be listening to him, but maybe he’s just losing it. 

He picks himself up, rights the chair, and wipes spilled beans off the seat. Then he eats. As much as he doesn’t want to give Ardyn the satisfaction, he’s very hungry.

The intercom crackles again. “Do you think your brothers and sisters feel pain, too?”

Prompto _has_ wondered about that.

“Do you think they grieve their dead?”

“Do you think,” Ardyn continues, “that it’s worse for them, when the attack comes from someone with their own face?” 

Prompto feels a guilty pang. He’s already been giving this a lot of thought, but what is he supposed to do? He tries to shake it off, and continues eating.

He glances at the only decoration in this room, high up near the ceiling where he can’t reach it, even standing on the chair. It’s his family photo, a little burnt in the corner, and wrinkled from being in his wallet.

“Such good soldiers,” Ardyn says through the intercom. 

Prompto does his best to ignore this. Ardyn obviously put that picture in here to fuck with him.

“They had such high hopes for their son.” Ardyn clucks into the microphone. “You could tell from their reports that they were just so _proud_ of you.” 

Ardyn pauses, then asks, “Would they still be proud, I wonder?” 

Prompto finishes his beans and throws the can at the closed-circuit camera. It doesn’t do any damage, but it’s sort of cathartic.

“ _Oooh._ Have I hit a nerve?”

Prompto tries plugging his ears again, and glares at the camera.

“You realize I have volume control, don’t you?” 

There’s a screech from the speaker, and Ardyn’s voice reverberates around him. “Should I read some of their reports? Would that be interesting to you?”

Something tugs at Prompto’s heart. He both fears and craves information about his parents. He decides to un-plug his ears.

“ _Ah._ I thought so.” The volume lowers to a more reasonable level. 

“Let’s see. Oh, _here’s_ a good one. ‘Must begin Snow Hare recruitment earlier than anticipated.’ Hey, I think that’s _you!_ “

Prompto holds his breath. Maybe he doesn’t want to hear this. He wonders where that codename came from.

“Allow me to continue.’’Shows promise re: deduction, rudimentary evasive maneuvers. Will initiate at earliest opportunity.’”

It’s not a surprise to hear that they were reporting back about him, but it sounds like they sent this message before they even told him who they really are. It makes him feel manipulated, and exposed. They didn’t exactly say he’d found them out, but if you read between the lines, maybe it does. What if their superiors had thought it would be better to just get rid of him? 

“ _See,_ what did I tell you? So proud. Here’s another. ‘SH has remarkable facility with firearms. Genetic?’ Your mother has always been very clever.” 

Prompto is struck with a chilling thought. Did they know what Besithia was doing? It occurs to him that the data they sent back from his medical records helped the Empire grow and torture all those other clones. He also doesn’t like the implication that Ardyn knew his mom. He feels like he might throw up, and avoids looking at the beans on the floor. 

“Now this one is interesting. ‘Snow Hare continues to spend significant time with Night Heron, including at the Crow’s Nest.’ Who do you suppose _that_ is?”

It’s Noctis, obviously. And the Crow’s Nest can’t be the diner. They must mean the Citadel. Prompto chews on what’s left of his nails. 

“‘Extent of relationship unknown. SH not forthcoming. Social media review inconclusive.’” Ardyn laughs for way too long at that.

Prompto looks up at the photograph and wonders why they were trying to figure out if he and Noctis were dating. There’s still a part of him that wants to believe it’s because they’re his parents, and not because it would give him a different kind of access to a valuable target. 

“Fascinating, stuff isn’t it? I’m sure your friends will also be _very_ interested in these reports.” 

Since they arrived at this place, Ardyn has repeatedly threatened to reveal Prompto’s secrets to the guys. This terrifies him more than anything else the chancellor could do to him.

“Do you miss your parents?”

He does. Almost as much as he misses Noctis.

“Do you wonder where they are?” 

Every single day.

“As it happens, I could tell you.”

Prompto’s breath catches. He turns wide eyes to the camera. He’s still not sure he wants to, but at the same time, he needs to know.

“In exchange, I just need you to do something for me.”

Prompto’s head drops. In a small voice, he breaks his silence with a simple, “No.”

“ _Come now,_ ” Ardyn whines, “I haven’t even said what it is yet.” 

Prompto speaks slowly. “I will never help you.” 

Ardyn responds with a dramatic sigh that’s become familiar by now. “It’s depressing, really, your unwavering loyalty to the people who left you behind. You’re like a dog.”

As much as he tries to resist, Prompto feels the twist of that knife.

“Though I suppose that’s appropriate, given your penchant for rescuing puppies.” 

Is there anything about his life that Ardyn doesn’t know? 

“I wonder if your friends would appreciate your loyalty, if they knew what you _really_ were?”

It’s a good question that Prompto has asked himself many times during his captivity. He can only hope that the answer is yes. 

—

Prompto lifts his head. He’s been drifting in and out of consciousness for who-knows-how-long. His hands and arms have gone numb. His legs are tired. His voice is shot. His ribs hurt, and so does his face.

Earlier today—or maybe it was yesterday—three MTs dragged him out of his cell, with no explanation from Ardyn. First, he tried pleading with them. Like always, they didn’t seem to listen. Then he tried fighting, and it did _not_ go well.

There’s a table in this cell, covered in nasty looking instruments. They might just be for show, because nobody’s come in here to torture him yet— or at least not with any of those things.

He can hear Ardyn talking in the next room, saying, “Your head can do more than wear a crown! Use it!”

Prompto’s thoughts are mixture of terror and hope. The guys are here, trying to rescue him, and they might learn all his secrets in the process.

He hears Ardyn laughing, and desperately wishes he knew what was going on. 

“The infantry units you callously dub ‘MTs’ all began as babes in this very facility. Imprinted with security codes and incubated until they were strong enough to fight.”

And so it begins. He’s just going to tell them everything before Prompto even gets to see them. Before he can explain.

“What a pity. Innocent souls fated to suffer . . . at the hands of a foreign king.” 

That’s not fair.

“Well, not so MT after all, are they?”

Prompto feels a new surge of anger. His voice cracks as he shouts, “ _You_ make them suffer!” 

Ardyn ignores him, and continues talking into his microphone.

“The most fascinating tidbit about your _dear_ Prompto.”

 _Shit._ Here it comes.

“Turns out, he’s not empty either. He’s got quite the skeleton in his closet.” Ardyn is absolutely cackling at his own joke.

That was sort of ambiguous. Maybe they won’t figure it out. No, who’s he kidding? Ignis, at least, must have gotten it.

Ardyn calls out to him then. “Did you hear that, Prompto?” 

“Fuck off!” He manages to reply, with the last of his voice.

After several minutes, he hears Ardyn say, “How _will_ this story end, I wonder?”

Then the alarm goes off, and the Imperial robot lady’s voice rings out through the keep. “Intruder alert,” she says, “mobilizing dormant Magitek Infantry.”

This place is _huge._ There must be so many MTs. But Prompto knows the guys are tough, and fight smart. They can handle it.

Then he hears Ardyn ask, “Where _are_ your friends?”

Is he talking to Prompto now, or into the microphone?

“You don’t think,” Ardyn gasps, “they ran off _without_ you?”

Oh no.

“You still haven’t found Gladio? Only a matter of time before Ignis bumbles into a trap.”

Why would they split up? 

“You must feel very much alone right now.”

Noctis is fighting off waves of MTs on his own, and there’s absolutely nothing Prompto can do to help him. 

He’s beginning to panic. The pressure on his chest and ribs—where the machine is squeezing him—is almost unbearable. He closes his eyes and tries to do a breathing exercise. Then he drifts off again.

The next time he wakes up, he’s already hit the floor. Needly pain shoots through all four of his limbs. All he sees is Noctis crouching in front of him, wild-eyed and sweaty. 

“Gods, Prompto! I didn’t mean to fucking drop you! I’m sorry.”

Prompto smiles, and falls into his best friend’s arms. 

He’s going to be okay.

—

They’re holed up in a dormitory, trying to get some rest, but nobody feels safe enough to really relax. Gladio barricaded the door with a chair, and he’s watching it like a hawk. Ignis is trying to sleep in one of the bunks.

Noctis sits on another, with Prompto’s head in his lap. He’s supposed to be sleeping, but Noctis is stroking his hair, and it feels really nice and he doesn’t want to miss any of that. He opens his eyes, and Noctis bends to whisper in his ear.

“What’s wrong, what do you need?”

Prompto shakes his head. “Nothing. You’re here.” He reaches a hand to touch Noctis’s cheek, and winces as a sharp pain shoots through his arm.

Noctis makes a small, anguished sound. “You’re super hurt. _Fuck,_ Prompto. I’m so, so sorry.” 

“Stop apologizing.” He kisses Noctis’s knuckles.

Noctis laughs, or maybe he’s crying. “Why are you like this?” 

Prompto grins. How could he be mad at Noctis? He’s so completely overwhelmed with gratitude. His friends came for him, despite everything Ardyn threw at them.

The smile fades when his thoughts drift to all the MTs they must have killed to get here, and the secrets he’s still keeping from them. He curls up, trying to make himself smaller, and clutches Noctis’s hand to his heart.

—

In another bunk, in another part of the keep, Noctis and Prompto have a moment alone. Ignis and Gladio stepped away to make sure the hallways outside are clear, and to hit up a vending machine.

“Did you really think we wouldn’t accept you?” Noctis asks, with a pained smile.

Prompto doesn’t know how to answer that. He looks at his hand, at their fingers twined together. 

“I was scared, but,” he looks back up to meet his best friend’s eyes. “I hoped you would.”

“Of course we would. We do!” Noctis wraps an arm over his shoulder and kisses him on the side of the head.

Prompto’s still marveling at his friends’ reactions. They were totally un-fazed when he told them he was born in a lab, meant to become an MT. 

He’d reached the point where he had no choice but to tell them—when it was clear that the only thing to get them through the door was his barcode. So he did it, and it was okay. 

He’s relieved about that, but still has reason to be nervous.

Noctis gently turns Prompto’s hand over, and presses a soft kiss to those lines of ink he’s spent his whole life trying to hide. 

After a moment, head resting on Prompto’s shoulder, Noctis says, “I can’t stop thinking of how many MTs we’ve…”

“Yeah,” Prompto breathes. “Me neither.”

“And all those daemons. They used to be people. _Fuck!_ ” 

Prompto shudders. That was a terrifying revelation. He remembers the clothes he found at the train yard, and similar piles scattered all throughout the keep. He wonders if it hurt, when they turned.

Then he remembers Besithia’s face—bubbling with shiny, dark ooze—just before Prompto shot him. 

Trying to push that nightmarish image out of his mind, he turns his head and buries his nose in the nest of Noctis’s hair, inhaling him.

“I must stink. Haven’t showered in days,” Noctis murmurs.

“Nah.” 

The truth is, his smell is comforting. And anyway, Prompto’s even more of a mess. 

They sit quietly, just breathing and being in the moment together. That’s when Prompto decides to tell him. If he doesn’t do it now, he’ll lose his nerve again.

“Hey, Noct?”

_“Hmm?”_

“Um. That wasn’t all of it.”

“Huh?” Noctis sits up so they can look at each other, and Prompto takes a deep breath to steady himself.

“There’s more that you guys don’t know. About me.”

“Okay. You can tell me. It’s fine.” Noctis is trying to reassure him now, but he has no idea what’s coming.

“Um.” Prompto’s voice quavers. “It’s about my family.”

Noctis is still just looking at him—open and encouraging.

“They’re, uh. They’re from Niflheim too.”

Noctis’s eyebrows scrunch together and he nods. “Okay . . .”

“ _Shit._ This is hard.” Prompto takes another deep breath. “They’re Imperials, Noct.”

Noctis leans back, and lets go of Prompto’s hand. “What do you mean?” 

“I found out they’re, like, spies.” 

He can’t look at Noctis anymore, but hears him inhale sharply. There’s no turning back now. He keeps talking, and picks up speed. 

“And they were training me. Trying to . . . recruit me.” Prompto winces at that word. 

“I was going to tell you, after we were out of the city, and then . . .” he can’t say it. Their city fell, and it might be his fault. “I’m so, so sorry.” 

Prompto sucks in his tears, and waits.

Noctis is quiet for a long time. Then he asks, “When were you last in touch with them?”

“Before we left Insomnia. They have no way of contacting me. Made sure of that.” 

Prompto lets out a brittle laugh. “And now,” he nearly whispers, “I don’t even know if they’re still alive.” 

His tears come freely, then.

“You didn’t know what they were planning.” It’s more of a statement than a question. 

Prompto shakes his head. “They said.” His voice hitches. “They promised they didn’t hurt people. They said they wanted peace.”

“And you believed them.”

“Yeah,” he responds—all jagged and strangled. “I really am that stupid.”

This is it. Now he knows.

“No.” Noctis touches Prompto’s chin to tilt his head so they’re looking at each-other. 

“You’re not stupid.” Noctis sniffs, wiping his eyes. “And you never lied to me.”

Prompto startles at this, and Noctis puts a hand on his shoulder. 

“You said there was stuff you couldn’t tell me, about your family. And I agreed not to ask. Maybe I was irresponsible or whatever, but it is what it is. You never lied to me.”

“I should have _told_ you,” Prompto insists.

“Maybe. But I don’t care.” Noctis pulls him into a hug. “I love you, Prompto. I still trust you.”

Prompto melts, sobbing, into Noctis’s shoulder. He can’t believe it. What did he ever do to deserve such devotion? They’re still clinging to each-other when he hears the door open behind him. 

It’s Ignis and Gladio.

“Give us a minute?” Noctis asks. 

Ignis says, “Of course,” and they step out—closing the door behind them. Prompto can hear footsteps moving back down the hallway. 

“Hey,” Noctis pulls away just far enough to look Prompto in the eyes. “Maybe it’d be better if we don’t tell them this part.”

“But—”

“They don’t know you like I do. Yeah, they’re your friends, but they’re also senior Crownsguard officers. Gladio’s my shield. His dad was my dad’s shield. Ignis is my advisor.” Noctis lowers his voice to a whisper. “I mean, technically, I think this might be considered treason.”

He’s probably right. 

“Then, arrest me, or something!” Prompto wails. 

“ _Shhhh_ , no! What would be the point? I’m the king now, and I just got you back. I don’t want to lose you again over this.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Please, keep this between us? Just for now?”

Prompto nods, but it makes his stomach hurt to think about keeping this secret any longer. 

At least now he can talk to his best friend about it.

Noctis kisses him urgently, then opens the door to call the others in.

Ignis and Gladio enter the room, carrying an armful of energy drinks each, which they dump onto one of the bunks. Prompto dries off his face with the corner of a sheet, and tries make himself more presentable.

“Still no Ebony?” Noctis asks, picking up a bottle of something fluorescent blue. He begins doing whatever it is he does to turn it into a potion.

“Sadly, no.” Ignis sits down beside Prompto, after giving him a pat on the shoulder. 

“Just more crushed cans in the trash,” Gladio adds, placing a chair up against the door. 

“That’s _so_ weird,” Prompto says. “I definitely saw some MTs carrying around whole cartons of the stuff before you guys got here. Not sure where they took it, though.”

“I have my suspicions.” Ignis frowns. “The chancellor likely found it amusing to deprive me of a simple pleasure.”

“ _Ohhh_ shit. I think you’re right.” Prompto can totally see Ardyn tossing out all the Ebony before Ignis arrived. “What a hateful asshole.” 

“Indeed.”

“Sorry, Iggy. I wish I could have brought you some from the other awful Imperial facility. They had a lot of it there.” 

“It’s quite all right, Prompto.” Ignis gives him a gentle smile. Lowering his voice, he asks, “How are you doing?”

“Um. Better, I guess.” Prompto makes brief eye contact with Noctis across the room. “Thank you, by the way. For what you said back there.” 

“I only spoke the truth. You’re one of us, and an indispensable part of the group, at that.”

“I don’t know if I would go _that_ far,” Prompto laughs, embarrassed by the praise. “But thanks Iggy. It really means a lot.” 

“Okay guys, have at it.” Noctis tosses his last curative into the pile, and collapses onto another bed. Magic always tires him out. 

“We shouldn’t stay here too long,” Gladio cautions, “but you can take a quick nap if you need it.”

Noctis doesn’t respond because he’s already asleep.

“Hey Gladio, reading anything good these days?” Prompto asks.

“I’m just starting a new book, actually. I picked it up in Altissia.” He pulls a small paperback out of his jacket pocket, and hands it over to Prompto.

“A science fiction classic,” Ignis adds. 

“Yeah,” Gladio laughs, taking the book back. “He’s been on my ass to read this for years.” 

“Because it’s _good._ ”

“I like sci-fi!” Prompto squeezes the pillow he’s holding and leans forward. “Do you think, maybe, would you mind reading it out loud?”

Gladio looks surprised for just a moment, then grins. “Sure, why not? As long as it won’t bother Iggy.”

“Of course not.” Ignis makes himself comfortable, leaning back against the wall. His wry smile says he’s totally on to them. 

Gladio opens the book. “Then let’s start at the beginning.”

_~ Gralea airspace ~_

The airship is full of mechanical sounds and quiet, bewildered people trying to process what just happened.

They were all together, making their way to the crystal. Then there were too many daemons, so Noctis ran ahead while the three of them fought. When they finally made it there, he was gone. 

According to the chancellor, the crystal pulled Noctis in. The crystal did look different—dimmer. None of them trust a word Ardyn says, though, so they searched the keep. There was no sign of him, anywhere. Just daemons, and MTs. 

Prompto still wasn’t used to killing them. He threw up more than once.

Gladio stares out the window. Aranea and Ignis are having a hushed conversation, probably—hopefully—coming up with a plan. Prompto’s sitting in a corner dusted with sparkly lights, repeatedly summoning and dismissing his guns. 

If he can still do that, maybe it means Noctis is still alive. Prompto wonders if he can feel it. 

He stops when Aranea crosses the room and leans against the wall next to him.

“Hey shortcake, I heard you took out Ardyn for a second. Well done.”

“Thanks,” he nearly whispers. 

It felt really cathartic to shoot that motherfucker in the back. But then he just stood up, and walked away. 

What are they supposed to do with an enemy they can’t kill?

Aranea says, “We’re headed to Caem, to meet up with Gladio’s sister and your other friends.”

Prompto nods, slowly. 

“You doing okay?”

He shakes his head. There’s a throbbing pain in his temples, and behind his eye sockets. He’s exhausted and dehydrated from crying. He has no idea what he’s going to do.

“Understandable.” Aranea squeezes his shoulder and steps away to check in with her team.

Prompto picks up his Lokton. Noctis brought it all the way to Zegnautus for him, along with his stomach meds and his toiletry bag. So fucking thoughtful. He could turn it on and click through some photos. He doesn’t, though. 

He sets it down gently, and summons his guns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to Tumblr user [Face-70](http://face-70.tumblr.com) for [pointing out](https://face-70.tumblr.com/post/182022746528/hi-im-here-to-ruin-your-night-fellow-prompto) that there is a little room with a microphone on a desk, right next to the cell where the guys rescue Prompto.
> 
> Also, I want to mention that I remembered--and was inspired by-- this gorgeous [poem](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17637284) by MT while I was writing that last bunker scene.


	4. Ice

__

_~ Lestallum, the first year~_

The barrel jerks up above the rooftop, swaying slightly from its rope. Prompto grabs it, and pulls it back from the edge.

“Got it!” he calls down to the street below. 

When the heavy object starts to lower, he guides it into place. Then he unties the rope, and drops the end over the edge of the roof. 

“Is that the last one?” 

“For now!” Gladio shouts back up at him.

“Thanks big guy!”

He walks over to Furloch, who’s eyeing the row of blue plastic barrels packed with dirt. “I think these will work,” he says, slapping Prompto on the back.

When Gladio joins them on the roof, Furloch hands each of them a beer from his cooler. 

“Thanks for the help, boys.”

“No problem.” Prompto smiles.

“Happy to do it.” Gladio wipes a bandana across his forehead. “We should get more up here tomorrow. Iggy says we have another truckload of dirt coming.” 

They’re setting up vegetable gardens on the rooftops near the marketplace. Furloch is coordinating the effort with some of the other merchants and farmers who’ve had to abandon their land to the relative safety of the City of Light. More refugees show up every day. 

If they’re smart about it, and efficient, maybe there’s some hope of feeding everybody.

People more or less accept that Ignis speaks for Noctis until he turns up. Ignis has already recruited a group of people to help make decisions, like an advisory council. They have meetings every week. Right now, they’re focused on real basic stuff: light to keep the daemons away; food to eat; and water to drink. After they figure that part out, maybe they can start to think about how to make life a little less miserable.

The sun is already starting to set as Gladio and Prompto leave the building.

“Where you sleeping tonight, Blondie?”

Prompto hadn’t given that much thought, actually. “Uhhh . . .”

Gladio’s expression softens. “Why don’t you come by the apartment then?” 

_“Nah.”_ Prompto shakes his head. “You guys are crowded enough without me.” 

Seven people in a one-bedroom is kind of ridiculous.

“You sure? There’s still room on the floor, if you don’t mind getting cozy with me.” Gladio laughs, and flings an arm over his shoulder.

“I’m fine, really.” He smiles to demonstrate just how fine he is.

“Okay. Text me if you change your mind.”

“Will do.” 

It’s nice to have a phone again, thanks to Cor. It was still brand new—in the box—because the marshal never set it up. He says his old one works just fine, even though it doesn’t even have a touch screen. It’s literally an antique. 

Prompto looks up and down the street, wondering what he’s going to do. He’s got enough gil in his pocket for a few drinks, so he decides to stay out. He can sleep when he’s dead, or when he passes out at the bar—whichever comes first.

The place he wanders into is crowded tonight. Prompto buys a beer and chats with a group of Exineris workers. When they leave, he sidles up to some hunters to swap stories for a couple of hours. Then they leave, and the only other patron besides him is reading a book and looking very grouchy. 

Prompto’s exhaustion finally catches up with him when the bartender goes into the back room, leaving him with no-one to talk to. He wakes up to fingers snapping in his ear.

“Sorry kid, but I can’t have you drooling on my bar.” She wrinkles her brow.

“Of course. Sorry.” He wipes his face on a sleeve and rubs his eyes. 

He starts tapping out a text to Gladio, but deletes it. It’s way too late. Everybody must already be asleep over there. 

That’s when he notices the photo booth, and realizes this is _that_ bar. 

He’d forgotten where they’d been that night, when they’d all had a few too many, and he and Noctis put that thing to good use. Back then, they were still trying to be sneaky.

Prompto walks over and brushes his finger against a smear of hardened chewing gum. It’s the last trace of the ‘Out of Order’ sign Noctis scrawled on a page ripped from his journal, and stuck there so they wouldn’t be disturbed. Such a brilliant plan. 

Prompto starts to laugh, but it’s dangerously close to a sob. 

He slips into the booth, and closes his eyes, trying to conjure up the memory of his last time here. The feeling of his fingers in Noctis’s hair, damp with sweat from the Lestallum heat. The sweet and salty taste of him. The sound of his breathing. The fervent need to make up for all the years they wasted not doing _this._ That feeling of being exactly where they were supposed to be. 

Now, Prompto doesn’t know where he’s supposed to be, or what he’s supposed to do, and these memories are all he has left. He pulls his knees to his chest, rests his head against the side of the booth, and cries himself to sleep.

__

_~ Galdin Quay, the first year~_

“Do you remember the last time we were here?” Ignis asks, slowing reeling in his line.

“Yeah.” Prompto sits up from where he’s been lying on the dock. “Didn’t we wait for like, 5 hours while Noct was fishing?” 

“Exactly. And now, what are we doing?” 

Prompto laughs, once, and picks up his rod. 

“Well, it’s for a good cause.” 

Both of them were hoping they might find Noctis here, in one of his favorite places in Lucis. They sit quietly for a while, listening to the lapping waves, before Ignis speaks again.

“This won’t be enough, for very long.”

Prompto murmurs in agreement. They are too many mouths to feed in Lestallum, and food is becoming more and more scarce. Just like the daylight. 

“Weren’t you and Sania talking about fish farms or something?”

“That we were. It should be possible to raise fish in tanks, utilizing waste heat from the power plant. They would not only serve as a food source, but we could use their excrement as fertilizer for the gardens.”

“Neat. Gross, but neat.” Prompto stands and casts again, trying another spot. “Let me know how I can help.”

Just then, he feels a tug at his line. “ _Ooh!_ Got one!”

“Careful with the tension. Ease off if you need to.” Ignis stands, and rests a hand on his shoulder. 

“I know! How many times have I watched Noct do this?” 

Prompto chews on his lip and concentrates, moving with the fish as it pulls on the line, struggling to escape. Gradually, it wears itself out as Prompto reels it in. He brings the fish to their truck, where they’ve got a huge Coleman cooler filled with water, and cringes as he removes the hook from its mouth. He feels kind of bad.

They fish until they’re almost out of daylight, reminiscing and eating some really delicious sandwiches and hand-cut potato chips that Ignis made. They end up with a pretty good haul. 

Before dark, Prompto switches on the generator that powers the floodlights and the caravan. Hopefully it will be enough to keep daemons from helping themselves to the fish.

Their lodging for the night is protected by a tall fence—a heavy chain secures the gate. The little curtains don’t do much to block the light shining down on them—but Prompto’s not about to complain. 

He’s tired, but it’s way too early to go to sleep. There’s a little bookshelf in the caravan, and Prompto goes through all the titles in case his friend feels like reading one together. 

One memorable selection makes Ignis laugh and say, “Oh _that’s_ still here. No thank you.” 

Nothing seems particularly appealing, though.

“Why don’t we just talk?” Ignis finally suggests. “I know so little about your life before we left Insomnia.” 

“C’mon, I’m sure you saw my background check.” Prompto means to joke, but there’s an edge to it. 

Ignis doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then he turns his face toward Prompto and says, “The information contained in a background check can tell us whether someone is a threat to the Crown—or at least that’s the hope.” 

His mouth curls with the ghost of a smile, and Prompto wonders if he’s trying to imply anything. 

“What those reports cannot tell us, is who that person truly is,” Ignis concludes.

“I mean.” Prompto laughs awkwardly. “There’s not much to tell. I was an insecure _pleb_ who got to hang out with the prince for gods-know-why. Before that, I was alone all the time. But you knew that already.” 

He looks up to see Ignis smiling at him fondly, and shaking his head. “I won’t push the issue, but I hope you know you’re much more than Noctis’s friend, or partner.”

“Thanks, Iggy.” 

That’s really nice of him to say, but Prompto’s not so sure. He decides to change the subject. 

“What about you?” You never talk about _your_ childhood.”

“No,” Ignis muses, “I don’t.” 

“Seriously? Not fair!” Prompto throws a cushion, and Ignis catches it and casually sets it aside.

“If you insist, let me put the kettle on first.” 

Ignis stands and makes his way to the small kitchen. “Would you like some tea?”

“Sure. Need a hand?”

Ignis gestures to Prompto to stay seated. “Not at all, I’ll just be a moment.”

Prompto sinks back down into the couch. “Okay. Thanks Iggy!”

When he returns to the living room, Ignis says, “I think you already know that I was born in Tenebrae.”

“Yeah, Noct told me.” 

“My parents died when I was young, and I became a ward of the royal family.”

“That must’ve been really hard.” Prompto can’t even imagine.

“Yes.” Ignis takes a deep breath. “It was. But King Regis was kind to me. He gave me a place, and something to focus on, a duty to fulfill.”

“Noct.”

Ignis nods. Hearing the kettle squeal, he stands. “How does a rooibos sound? Better to stick with caffeine-free so we can get some sleep tonight.”

“Whatever you’re having sounds great. I’m not picky.” 

Prompto smiles to himself. Ignis has told him before that this is one of his best qualities. 

Ignis returns with two mugs, and hands one to Prompto. The mug is warm, and it feels nice to hold it in both of his hands and breathe in the steam.

“Thanks.”

With a nod, Ignis takes his seat.

There’s something Prompto’s been wanting to ask Ignis about, but it always felt kind of awkward with Noctis around.

“You were just a little kid when you came to the Citadel. Did they really have you working?” 

Ignis sits up a little straighter, and Prompto hopes he didn’t offend him.

“I don’t know that I would characterize it like that.” He pauses for a couple of breaths.  


“My path was to serve as Noct’s advisor when he took the throne, and I had education and training to that end.” 

Ignis sips his tea before continuing.

“Noctis had no siblings, and he’d lost his mother.” Ignis frowns. “When King Regis asked me to care for his son, I accepted wholeheartedly. I looked after Noctis as if he were my own brother.”

Prompto catches himself nodding. “You were,” he murmurs.

“Pardon?” 

“Sorry, I mean, he always said he felt like you two were brothers. I know it bothered him that you weren’t always included in things.” 

“That’s good to hear.” Ignis picks up a napkin to wipe his mouth, then quickly dabs at the corner of his eye. 

Prompto sniffs, and clears away the looming sadness with a quick shake of the head.

“You sure fought like brothers, sometimes!” 

Ignis laughs. “That we did.” 

“I was always kinda jealous,” Prompto admits sheepishly, “that Noct had somebody like you. Like, a sibling.”

“Well.” Ignis reaches across the small living room to grab Prompto’s hand. “You’re part of the family, now.”

Prompto squeezes his friend’s hand in both of his own, and smiles. 

“And I hope that we have provided you with some kind of anchor. Some stability.”

“Definitely.” It’s true. Even though they were always moving, Prompto had started to feel like he had a home—first with Noctis, and then with the other guys.

Ignis leans forward, and adds, “We were all a bit adrift when we left the Crown City, but perhaps you most of all, because you cut those old ties yourself.”

Prompto’s breath catches, and he studies Ignis’s expression. He looks kind, nonjudgmental, and open. This isn’t an accusation that Prompto hid the truth about his parents. It’s an affirmation—that Ignis understands what he’s been going through. 

After a slow exhale, he finally says, “Yeah. I did.”

“And I meant what I said back in that hellhole,” Ignis continues. “No matter where you come from, no matter your upbringing, you’re one of us. We trust you.”

Prompto’s still squeezing Ignis’s hand, and now he’s dripping tears onto both of their fingers. Ignis crosses the space between them, and they share a hug that says everything that’s left to say on the subject.

__

_~ Lestallum, the first year~_

“Now, start your stitch from the inside, so you can hide the knot.” Iris leans over him, pointing at the spot on the jacket where Prompto should start sewing.

“Right. Got it.” He pulls his needle through the garment, through the patch he’d pinned on to it earlier, and back the other direction. 

“That’s it! Nice and small.” She beams at him like a proud teacher. “Keep doing that.”

“Aye, aye!” 

He’s hand-sewed before, but it was always pretty sloppy. Now he’s learning how to do it right, and he’ll have plenty of practice. They’ve got a big pile of clothes to get through today. Some things people have asked Iris to mend, and other things she plans to sell once she sets up her own shop.

They’re taking a lollipop break when Prompto sees the marshal striding towards them, wearing a grim expression.

“Mr. Immortal!” Prompto salutes. “How are you this fine day?” 

Cor doesn’t even crack a smile. “Message the others, we need to talk. Meet at Monica and Dustin’s in half an hour.”

“You know, you _can_ text with that phone. You just have to hit the number buttons a bunch of . . .“ 

And he’s already walking away. 

“Nevermind! You can count on me!” Prompto shouts across the square. 

Iris looks equal parts amused and concerned. “I wonder what’s going on? I guess we should head back to my place so we can find out.” 

“Yeah, just a sec.” He types out a text to Ignis and Gladio. “Okay!” 

They collect Talcott and walk across town to a modest but pretty apartment building, then up three flights of stairs to the place Iris and Gladio share with Monica, Dustin and Talcott. They’ve also got Cid crashing on the couch while he’s in town to help the glaives and the hunters with their weapons. 

There’s hardly any floor space with all the furniture and gear packed into the tiny one-bedroom apartment. There’s a bunk bed taking up almost half of the living room, and Monica and Dustin’s bedroom also serves as their office. 

Iris tidies up the lower bunk—her bed—and takes a seat. Prompto sits on the floor, because he knows somebody’s going to have to. Talcott shows them a simple game he’s been designing, using only his phone. The kid is so unbelievably clever.

Once everybody’s gathered and sipping lemonade—fresh squeezed by Dustin—Cor stands to address them.

“I’ve had a visit from Gentiana, the messenger of Shiva.” 

There’s more than one gasp from the group. 

“Did she bring news about the king?” Monica asks, hopeful. 

Cor nods. “We’re to stop searching for him. When he returns, it will be at Angelgard.”

Prompto feels a chill run through him. He glances at Talcott, whose eyes have gone wide. 

Ignis hums, thoughtfully. “We’ll have to wait then, and prepare.”

“But, when do we get him back?” Prompto looks from Ignis to Cor and back again, desperate for more information.

“She didn’t say.” Cor’s frown deepens. “Maybe some of the old texts could give us a clue.”

“I could help with that!” Talcott pipes up. “My grandpa’s notebook is full of that kind of stuff, and maybe there’s more we can find.”

“Good old Jared.” Gladio smiles. “He’s still looking out for us.” 

Iris gives Talcott a squeeze. 

“Indeed.” Ignis crosses his arms. “It would be good to have your help, Talcott. I cannot read at the moment, and aside from that, I would appreciate your insights.” 

The child is absolutely beaming at this praise from his biggest hero aside from Noctis. 

“When can we start?” he asks.

“How about now? You can read me that notebook of your grandfather’s.”

Monica stands up. “Ignis, please take my seat. I’ll make us some sandwiches.”

“Much obliged.” 

Iris, Gladio and Prompto clear out of the cramped space so the others can get some work done. Down on the street, none of them know what to say. 

“So. We’re just supposed to stop looking for him now?” Prompto’s voice quavers.

Gladio wraps him and Iris in a side-hug each. “Sounds like it.”

“I wonder how long it will be,” Iris murmurs to her feet.

Nobody has to say that they’re all asking the same question.

__

_~ Lestallum, the third year ~_

“Sorry, hon. We haven’t got any free rooms tonight.”

Prompto drops his forehead to the check-in desk and groans. He really, really doesn’t want to sleep outside. He knows his friends would let him crash with them, but he also knows what a pain it is to squeeze another person into an already-overcrowded space. There are few things Prompto hates more than feeling like he’s in the way. 

The elderly proprietor sighs. “If you want, buy a drink and wait in the common room. You’ll be the first to know if somethin’ opens up.”

He lifts his head, smiling. “Have I told you yet today how beautiful you are, Caupa?” 

She laughs, and shows off her gold tooth. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Prompto. But you still gotta buy a drink if you wanna stay.”

He slides 150 gil across the desk. “I’m not trying to get a free drink! I’m just speaking truths!”

He gets the house special, on the rocks. It’s made right here, in a room where they used to stash luggage for hotel guests after check-out. It’s strong, too. The first sip clears out Prompto’s sinuses. 

The common room is packed, as usual. All these lonely people. They come from Gralea, Altissia, Leide and Duscae. A lot of them come from Insomnia. Some of them are home, but say they hardly recognize the City of Light as the place they grew up. 

There’s an open seat at a table where some hunters are playing cards. Prompto recognizes a couple of them from staying here so often. The hot guy with the green mohawk is Lyco. The super nice bearded guy is Ballio, who waves him over.

“Hey! Prompto!” Ballio stands to greet him with a hug. “We’re just starting a game of 5 stud. 1000 gil buy-in. 50 to 200 limit.”

Prompto just got paid, so he _can_ afford it. And it’s not like he has anything better to do. 

“Sure, what the hell.” 

He pulls out his wallet and takes a seat next to Lyco, who counts out chips from a bucket on the floor, and drops them into Prompto’s cupped hands. 

“Argentum, right?” Lyco puts the money in a metal lockbox on the table. 

“That’s me.” 

“Guess I better watch out, then.” 

Lyco reclines, arranging his long limbs out of the way, a wide smile spreading across his face. He’s remarkably graceful for somebody in muddy boots and a dusty black denim jacket with a back patch that reads ‘I.C.U.P.’ 

Prompto tilts his head and squints at him. “I don’t bite or anything.”

Lyco shrugs. “Nobody’s perfect.” 

This makes Prompto laugh. He stacks his chips in neat little piles.

Ballio says, “Everybody, meet Prompto. Prompto, meet Flavia, Simo and Citrio.” 

After a round of nice-to-meet-yous and handshakes across the table, and then a round of drinks from Citrio—who also just got paid—Ballio deals one card face down to each of them, and another face up.

Prompto has a lifetime of experience trying to figure out what other people are thinking and feeling, which is a useful skill at times like this. He knows Ballio well enough to tell that he’s happy with his cards. He alternates between fiddling with the fringe on his scarf, and stroking his beard, covering up a smile.

Deciding not to throw any more good money after bad, Prompto folds.

“I’ll get us more drinks.” He pushes up to his feet, and touches Lyco’s shoulder. “Watch my chips?” 

Lyco looks up at him with a half-smile. “Don’t worry. I already ate.”

Laughing a little too loud at that very dumb joke, Prompto returns to the desk and slaps down enough cash for another round.

“Anything?” He gives the proprietor his best puppy eyes. 

Caupa pours out the drinks, shaking her head. “Not yet. Here, let me help you with these.” 

She carries the glasses to their table on a tray.

“What service!” Flavia exclaims. She takes a glass and raises it. “To Caupa, for running the best damn flophouse in the apocalypse!” 

Around the table there’s murmured agreement and laughter and clinking glasses. Caupa pretends to be insulted, but she’s smiling as she returns to her post, skirts swishing.

They start a new hand.

“This really is a great place.” Prompto throws a chip into the pot. “If only I could get a room.”

Simo nods, slowly, and scratches under the edge of his thick orange scarf. “I was lucky. Got in early tonight.”

“That’s the way to do it.” Citrio croaks, setting down his glass. He wipes a peacoat sleeve across his face. “Strong stuff!” 

Nobody disagrees.

Prompto just got back from Hammerhead. It’s a long way, especially when the roads are clogged with animals gone berserk. He should’ve known everything would be booked up by the time he rolled into town.

The housing situation in Lestallum is completely out of control. More and more people from the smaller outposts are coming in to the city looking for greater safety and food. Every time he comes back here, it’s harder to find a place to stay, and it’s more expensive.

Flavia deals more cards, and scowls. She pushes her face-down card aside and stands. She growls in frustration, and buries her hands in the tight magenta curls of her hair.

“Flav . . .” Ballio tugs at the hem of her oversized sweater, “You’re still dealer.”

Simo folds, too. Ballio doesn’t, but he’s biting his nails. 

It’s starting to get stuffy after so many hours of too many people talking and drinking and doing other things that raise the temperature. 

Prompto studies the cards on the table, and does some mental math. He figures there’s still something he can work with, so he raises.

“Shit.” Lyco’s out of chips, so he can’t call. He taps a knuckle lightly against his frown. 

After a breath or two, he looks around the table and says, “I’ll throw in one-half share of my room tonight.”

 _“Come on!”_ Citrio groans. “What good is that?” He unwinds his scarf and stuffs it in his jacket.

“ _Very_ good, actually.” Lyco answers. He slides out of his own jacket, and drapes it on the chair, revealing an ornate sleeve of flowers and vines, a wolf’s face peeking out from his skin. It’s real pretty.

“I’m sure Caupa would give you a refund,” Lyco says. “I’m an excellent host. I’ll even sleep on the floor!”

Ballio laughs. “Fine, fine. It’s not like we ever expected you to follow the rules.” 

“Whatever. I fold anyway.” Citrio rubs his eyes, and glances at the clock.

Now there are just three of them left. Lyco has a pair showing, and Ballio has a queen.

Ballio raises again, and it’s _so obvious_ that he’s trying to bluff. Maybe Lyco can’t read his friend so well, because he folds, too.

In the end, Prompto takes the pot with a pair of eights.

“Good hand. You’re buying me lunch tomorrow.” Ballio pats Prompto on the shoulder and yawns.

“You got it!” Prompto puts an arm around him, and wishes him good night as Ballio shuffles out of the room.

It’s late—or early, depending on how you look at it—and people are starting to peel off to go to bed. 

Prompto’s counting up his winnings when Lyco appears with two fresh glasses.

“Couch is open.” He gestures with his head, across the room. “We better hurry before Flav throws her girl on it.”

Flavia has another hunter—or maybe a glaive—pressed up against a Justice Monsters Five machine in the corner. There’s a Crows Nest poster hanging above the machine, and Lyco and Prompto can’t help but laugh at Kenny Crow leering down at the women. It’s so very bad, and also hilarious. 

“Why’re you buying _me_ drinks? I just took all your money.” Prompto plops onto the couch. 

“Dunno. Probably ‘cause you’re cute.” Lyco sips, and his gaze darts away to a corner of the ceiling.

Prompto snorts.

“And don’t forget.” Lyco points at him. “You took my bed, too.”

“Sorry,” Prompto murmurs. “Actually, no. Not sorry.” He smiles. “I don’t have to spend the night outside.” 

“Cheers to that.” _Clink._

Lyco leans back, flinging a lanky arm over the back of the couch. “I don’t mind though. Happy to share.”

“I thought you were sleeping on the floor?” Prompto tips his chin up and furrows his brow in mock seriousness.

“Oh yeah. I will.” 

Lyco reaches across the small distance between them, and carefully plucks a piece of candy-colored lint from the collar of Prompto’s black work jacket. Flicking it on the floor, he adds, “Unless you don’t want me to.” 

Prompto doesn’t say anything. He swirls the ice cube around in his otherwise-empty glass, and chews on his lower lip. He has a dull, hollow ache in his chest, where he keeps most of his loneliness. He lets his head fall back against the hand resting there.

“So . . .” Lyco brushes gentle fingers through his hair.

Prompto looks up at the man next to him, who seems kind and warm and safe enough. He takes a deep breath. His head is swimming.

“So . . .”

“Shall we?” 

Prompto nods. He stands and steadies himself on the arm of the couch, then on the arm Lyco offers him. And they go upstairs.

__

_~ Alsor, the fifth year ~_

With a click, the lock gives way, and Prompto spins on his heels, bowing dramatically.

“Nicely done!” Iris bounces, clapping, through the door of the superstore. “Oh wow. There’s so much good stuff here.”

He doesn’t feel too bad about liberating a few things from a big corporation that maybe doesn’t even exist anymore. Plus, his friends have rent to pay. It goes up all the time.

He opens his backpack and knocks a stack of chocolate boxes inside. Iris is weaving through racks of clothing. Hangers clatter on the floor as she fills her duffel bag. 

“Hey Iris!” He shouts across the store, waving a bright green soft toy in the air.

“Cute!” she squeals. “Give it to Talcott.”

“Obviously.” 

Prompto stuffs the plush in a side pocket. The kid might be a teenager now, but he’s still crazy about cactuars.

When they’ve gathered all they can carry and make their way to the door, the daylight has nearly disappeared. 

_“Shit.”_ Iris looks at her watch. “It’s a lot earlier than yesterday, right?” 

Prompto shrugs. “Honestly? I’ve stopped keeping track.” 

That’s when they see the swarm of imps—no doubt many of their former neighbors—advancing on the store. 

“The chocobos!” Iris gasps.

Prompto shoves a couple of hangers through the door handles, shouting, “Back door!” 

With the sound of insistent banging at their backs, they scramble out into the night—just in time to see their terrified birds running from an iron giant. 

Prompto summons his guns and lands two headshots.

Iris flings her duffel to the ground and sprints towards the hulking monster. Balancing on one arm, she delivers a flurry of kicks to its ankle. Then she flips out of the way, just barely avoiding the swing of its enormous sword as it stumbles. 

“Let’s get out of here,” she says breathlessly.

“Why?” Prompto scowls. They can totally take it. He shoots again.

“Come _on_!” 

The daemon raises a hand and a glowing ball appears in its palm. 

_Shit._

Prompto flails for something to grasp as he’s pulled forward, but there’s nothing within arm’s reach. Giving up on that plan, he trades his guns for the circular saw. If this fucker wants him close, he’s going to make it hurt. 

Iris vaults off a dumpster, coming down hard on the giant’s hand. The orb dissipates. It fails to grasp her, and gets Prompto instead. 

Lifting high off the ground, he can see the back door burst open. The imps have arrived.

Something goes ‘pop’ in Prompto’s back that probably shouldn’t. There’s nothing he can do but press his spinning blade into one massive finger and try not to pass out. 

With a guttural roar, Iris appears on the other side of the hand. In a blur of spinning limbs and complex, graceful technique, she hyperextends the daemon’s knuckle. Its grip loosens just enough for Prompto to wriggle free, crashing to the ground and taking out an imp on the way. 

“Go!” Iris’s hoarse scream rings out.

He doesn’t argue with her now, and doesn’t even try to catch his breath before running, ignoring the chorus of pain that sears through his ribs and jabs at his back. 

Above the fading laughter of the iron giant, he can hear Iris keeping pace behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, Prompto is relieved to see that she managed to grab the duffel bag. 

He whistles for the birds once they’re far enough away. When they come trotting out of the underbrush, Iris and Prompto slow just long enough to hop on, and don’t stop until they’re safe in Lestallum.

—

“What, the _fuck_ , were you thinking?” Gladio paces back and forth across the length of the room, which is not very far.

Prompto’s lying on the couch, under a pink crocheted blanket, feeling very pitiful. He coughs, and winces at what it does to his ribs. He flops his arm, helplessly.

“Nah,” Gladio concludes, “you _weren’t_ thinking, were you?” 

“Sorry,” Prompto mutters.

“What’s that?” Gladio’s eyes flash.

“I’ll be more careful next time, when I’m out with your sister.” Prompto looks away, rolling the bumpy edge of the blanket between his fingers.

“No. Not good enough.” Gladio crouches next to his head. “You need to keep _your_ skinny ass alive,” he adds, poking Prompto in the chest.

“Ow!” 

Gladio winces and apologizes—undermining his tough-love act.

Prompto tries not to laugh, and fails. It really hurts. Finally, he says, “If you say so.” 

When he meets Gladio’s eyes, he’s surprised to see tears gathering at the corners. 

Quieter now, Gladio says,“You need to be there. When he comes back. Okay?” 

Prompto nods quickly, and sits up to hug his friend. Gladio’s careful to not put any more pressure on his ribs, but the pain is unavoidable once Prompto starts sobbing.

 _“Shhhh.”_ Gladio strokes his back with remarkable gentleness, and they cry together. 

Even after all these years—especially after all these years—the waiting is really hard.

Prompto lies back on the couch, and dries his face with the blanket. “How ‘bout next time we take _you_ shopping?” 

“Sure. I’ll even model for you two. Just don’t pull a stunt like that again.”

“Deal.” Prompto smiles.

“Want some tea?” Gladio stands, and moves to the kitchen. 

“Yeah. And one of those smashed chocolates.” 

“Comin’ right up.”

__

_~ Hammerhead, the seventh year ~_

Cid pushes himself to his feet, leaning against the rickety card table. “Well, I’m beat.”

“Need a hand?” Prompto makes to follow him, but the mechanic pushes him back into his chair.

“You kids stay put. I ain’t that helpless yet.” 

Cindy stands to give her grandpa a kiss on the cheek. “Night!” 

“Tomorrow,” he reminds them, “we leave early.” 

Prompto gives a thumbs up as the old man exits the garage.

Cindy holds up the bottle they’ve been drinking from— _real_ whiskey that Prompto liberated from an abandoned convenience store—and wordlessly offers him a refill. 

“Sure.” He slides his glass over and she fills it, along with her own.

“To Coernix!” She laughs. “Thanks for the booze.”

“Cheers,” Prompto smiles. 

They’ve got his phone on the table, playing the music library on shuffle. The speakers aren’t ideal, but it works. 

The track changes, and Cindy clutches a hand to her heart. “Oh, I love this song.”

It’s a slow one and a classic, with bittersweet lyrics. 

Prompto extends his hand. “Wanna dance?”

“Sure do.” 

They sway together, and Prompto sings along quietly.

“My momma used to sing this to me when I was a little girl.” 

“Yeah? Me too.” 

Prompto pulls back to look at Cindy. He brushes a tear off her cheek, and says, “I mean, my mom used to sing it sometimes.”

“She must’a been quite a woman.” A faint smile flickers at the corner of Cindy’s lips.

“Yeah,” Prompto breathes. 

She was. Maybe she still is, but the chances of that get slimmer with every brief and precious day. 

“She did a real good job raisin’ you.” Cindy rests her head on his shoulder again. “You’re one‘a the good ones, Prompto Argentum.”

“You too.” He presses a kiss into her hair, and holds on tight into the next song. 

__

_~ Hammerhead, the tenth year~_

“We should really do this more often,” Prompto says. “It’s good to be together again.”

Ignis reaches across the table and puts a hand on his arm. “It is.”

“Yeah,” Gladio adds, and takes a swig from his flask.

Prompto’s been staying in Hammerhead full time, helping Cindy and Cid with whatever they need around the outpost. 

He used to prefer crowded places, but it turns out that misery doesn’t really love company—at least not so much company. Especially when people he knew and cared about kept disappearing. Especially when—at the first sign of infection—so many people had to make the impossible choice between leaving town or submitting to what they’d collectively decided to call “quarantine.”

Hammerhead isn’t as isolated as he thought it might be, back when he was still spending most of his time in Lestallum. There’s a steady stream of hunters and glaives looking to repair or upgrade their vehicles or weapons, but he hardly ever sees Ignis or Gladio anymore. 

Ignis’s phone rings, interrupting their conversation. He apologizes, but he doesn’t have to. There are so many moving parts involved in keeping their society together, and Ignis is pretty much managing all of it.

“Hello Talcott,” he answers the phone.

Prompto grins. “T-cott! Ask him if he’s on his way back here.” 

He wonders why the kid called Ignis instead of him, and tries not to read too much into it. 

“Are you sure?” Ignis almost-imperceptibly gasps. “May I speak to him please?”

Gladio and Prompto share a look of confusion.

With a sigh, Ignis says, “Very well. Please drive _carefully_. Goodbye.”

He sets the phone on the table and exhales slowly.

Gladio lays a hand on Ignis’s shoulder. “What is it?”

Prompto leans forward across the booth, dying with anticipation.

Through his widening smile, Ignis says the words they’ve all been waiting to hear: “He’s back.”


	5. Fog (burning off)

__

_~ Hammerhead ~_

Prompto’s heart pounds as he watches the truck pull through the gate into the parking lot. He strains to see the man sitting in the passenger seat.

Then the doors open, and Noctis steps out. He’s in the same clothes he had on the day he disappeared. He wears the ten years since then on his face. 

Prompto touches Ignis’s shoulder, and cries, “It’s really him!”

Much too slowly, the four friends draw closer. 

The years and the gravity of all that’s happened hang between them—a curtain of awkwardness and emotional overload. 

How many times has Prompto fantasized about this moment? And now that it’s finally here, he has no idea what to do. He’s both afraid to touch Noctis, and needs it more than he’s ever needed anything in his life.

Noctis finally breaks the spell and greets each of them with a watery-eyed embrace.

—

Inside the diner, they catch up and make plans.

Prompto sits next to Noctis, holding his hand. He marvels at how solid it is—how completely real. It’s very distracting. Between that, and the way Noctis keeps looking at him, he can’t follow the conversation.

Ignis clears his throat. “Perhaps we should continue to discuss this later.” 

Gladio stifles a laugh, taking a pull from his flask.

“Prompto?” Ignis asks. “Do we still have that camping gear stashed away somewhere?”

“Y-yeah. I think so. I’ll go look.” 

He reluctantly slips his hand out of Noctis’s and slides out of the booth. Noctis follows, offering to help carry things. 

They exchange conspiratorial smiles, and Prompto leads the way to the storage room.

“Sounds like you’ve been spending a lot of time around here.” 

Prompto nods, “Yeah, especially the last couple years. Lestallum got really . . . hard.” 

“So,” Noctis starts to ask, “you and Cindy . . .” 

Prompto stops what he’s doing—hand hovering over the door handle—and turns to look at Noctis. 

_“Uh-uh.”_ He frowns, shaking his head. “No. I don’t think you get to ask me about that.” 

Noctis opens his mouth to respond, but Prompto says, “You were gone, Noct. For _ten years_.” 

He takes a ragged breath and pulls Noctis’s hand to his chest. “I love you. You have my heart. But you weren’t here.” 

He lets the tears streak across his face, and braces himself for anger or sadness—or some other unknowable flavor of jealousy Noctis might have picked up in the time he was away.

But instead, Noctis just gives him a weak smile. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He brushes his thumb across Prompto’s cheek and says, “I love you too.”

Laughing with relief and wiping his face on a sleeve, Prompto opens the door. “Besides,” he adds, “a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

“Oh, so you’re a gentleman now?” Noctis yanks him into the closet, grinning, and the door swings closed behind them.

Prompto pushes his best friend—his long lost love—against a stack of boxes, and tries to devour him in a kiss. They part just long enough for Prompto to breathe, “I missed you so fucking much,” before Noctis pulls him back in.

—

Since they’re supposed to be “looking for camping supplies” at the moment, Prompto sweeps his gaze over the shelves, without moving from his spot on the floor, wrapped up in Noctis’s arms. He’s also keeping his eyes peeled for the sweater he finished knitting years ago and stashed . . . somewhere.

Noctis kisses a scar on his shoulder and asks, “What’s this from?” 

“Uh.” Prompto tries to remember which fight it was. “I think that might’ve been a goblin, actually.” He laughs. “Yeah, that was it. Fucker bit me and really latched on.” 

“Ouch.” 

“And then it got infected.”

Wincing, Noctis kisses his shoulder again. 

“That wasn’t too long after you—” Prompto stops short at the haunted, guilty look in Noctis’s eyes.

“Anyway,” he concludes, “I was more careful after that, with my injuries.”

“Good.” 

“What about this one?” Noctis lightly traces a scar running the length of his thigh.

“Hey that tickles.” Prompto grabs Noctis’s hand. “Are you going to ask me about all of them?”

“That okay?”

“I guess.” 

Noctis presses a gentle kiss to his lips. “Then, please tell me.”

“ _This_ was one of those yojimbos. Got me with his sword. I couldn’t even walk away from that fight. Gladio had to throw me on the back of the chocobo.”

Noctis lets out a sharp exhale, like he’s been hit. In a quiet voice, he says, “But you made it.” 

“Yeah,” Prompto replies, even quieter. He remembers how close he came to not making it, so many times.

After swiping at his eyes, Noctis touches tear-damp fingertips to another scar on Prompto’s knee. 

“And this?”

__

_~ A haven, just outside the Crown City ~_

The four of them are sharing a tent again, and it’s nothing like the last time they did this.

Prompto listens to the steady breathing of his friends, and tries to stay as quiet as possible.

He’s too enraged to sleep, because Noctis just told them how he’s going to end the scourge. 

They’re going to lose him again, when they’ve only just got him back. It’s not fair, but the gods don’t seem at all concerned about fairness. That’s something for people to worry about.

He just can’t understand how Noctis can accept this. Did he spend the last ten years getting brainwashed? Does he really know this is the only way?

Ignis didn’t look surprised, but he almost never does. Gladio and Prompto tried to argue, but in the end they both realized there’s no use. The Chosen King is resigned to his fate.

He feels another wave of anguish rising, and tries to muffle it in Noctis’s shoulder, clutching him tightly.

With a rustle of their doubled-up sleeping bags, Noctis squirms out of Prompto’s grasp and rolls over to face him. Half-conscious and voice thick with sleep, he whispers, “Prompto?”

“Sorry.” Prompto makes a futile attempt to dry his face, still choking on a sob. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Go to sleep.” Noctis combs his fingers through Prompto’s hair, which would be comforting under other circumstances. Right now it’s a reminder that this could be the last time he ever does that.

“Can’t.”

“Please.” Noctis kisses him on the forehead. “I need you. To shoot daemons. And not shoot me.” Noctis gives him a pained smile, and continues to stroke his hair.

“Well.” Prompto tries to channel more love than rage when he says, “I need you too, Noct.” Then he starts to unravel again.

Noctis pulls Prompto’s head to his chest, and holds him close while they both cry. 

Eventually, somehow, he falls asleep.

—

It’s still dark when he wakes, but it’s always dark now. He can hear Ignis and Gladio moving around outside.

Noctis is already awake, lying beside him. 

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

The sleeping bag pools around Noctis’s waist as he sits up. He’s still wearing the hand-knit black sweater Prompto gave him not fifteen hours earlier. 

Prompto fingers one of the cuffs, and pushes a stray yarn tail to the inside of the sleeve. 

“You’re not gonna wear _this_ , are you?” 

“Why not? I love it.” Noctis gives him a lopsided smile, and a kiss.

“I’m glad, but . . . it’s not very, uh, kingly.” 

Noctis nods. “Yeah, I guess I better wear the king uniform. Pass me that garment bag?”

They put on the neatly-pressed uniforms Iris and Dustin prepared for the occasion, and help each-other style their hair in the dim electric lamplight. 

Before stepping out of the tent to join their friends, Noctis takes both of Prompto’s hands, and says, “It’s time. Ready?”

Prompto takes a deep, slow breath. “I don’t know, “ he admits. “But, let’s go take back our home.”

__

_~ Insomnia ~_

At the very edge of Prompto’s vision—where his mind has to fill in the details and memory holds more sway than anything—he catches a glimpse of glittering glass and steel. 

He’s overcome with the same feeling he had as a little boy coming here with his parents. When they would exit the subway and crane their necks to look up at the buildings—all cold beauty and power—as divine as the Astrals themselves. It made Prompto dizzy then, and it does now. 

He steadies himself on Noctis, who quietly says, “We’re home.”

On his other side, he hears Gladio speaking low and reverent in Ignis’s ear, describing which of the buildings in the skyline of his memory remain standing—defiant against the Empire’s onslaught of destruction and misery.

They press forward through the smoldering streets, fighting daemons along the way. When they come upon a familiar fountain in the center of a once-busy roundabout, they stop for a quick rest. For now at least, there are no threats in the immediate area.

Prompto runs his palm along the worn stone edge of the fountain, and catches his best friend’s eye. 

Noctis smiles, fond and bittersweet. “You’re thinking about when we used to skate here,” he guesses.

Prompto nods, laughing softly. “We tried so hard.”

“I got such an earful for letting you two do that,” Gladio groans. “You could’ve broken your neck.”

“Oh you _let_ us?” Noctis raises an eyebrow. “Who was getting all our footage?”

“What? Was I supposed to refuse the crown prince?”

“Were you filming when His Highness sprained his wrist?” Ignis asks, without even a hint of amusement.

“Definitely!” Noctis answers for his shield. “That’s the best one.”

“It sure was fun while it lasted,” Prompto sighs.

“Yeah,” Noctis agrees.

“Hey, do you still have all those videos?” Prompto asks.

“I guess. They’re on my laptop.” Noctis points towards the Citadel. “In there.”

“Entertaining Ardyn, no doubt,” Ignis says.

Prompto frowns. “Fuck that guy.”

Everyone agrees.

__

The Kingsglaive have an outpost somewhere around here, in the network of underground paths that connect to the subway system.

When they enter the station, they’re surprised to see that it’s all lit up. It would almost look normal, if it wasn’t so empty.

While his friends push through an emergency exit, Prompto stops at the turn-style, and pulls out his wallet. Sure enough, his transit card still works—he has just enough left on it to get through. 

“The end of the world is no excuse for fare-jumping, guys!” Prompto grins.

With a hand-wave, and without turning around, Noctis says, “I’ll pardon us.” 

Prompto catches up, and flings an arm around his waist. “Sounds like an abuse of power.” 

“ _Shhh_.” Noctis smiles, and shuts him up with a kiss.

They walk past advertisements for bicycles and watches and tv channels that don’t exist anymore. They fall into a melancholy silence after Prompto wonders aloud what happened to all the animals and fish in the aquarium. 

Then they find the glaives, and all of a sudden Noctis really becomes the king. 

The transformation is subtle, but it leaves Prompto totally dumbstruck. He’s never seen his best friend like this before—effortlessly and confidently commanding a room, inspiring such a large group of people to fight for their country, to fight for _him_. 

Prompto looks over at Ignis, who’s wearing a proud smile. He doesn’t need to say, ‘I told you so.’ They know he was right all along.

—

They’re back on the street, heading in the direction of the Citadel, when something in the lobby of an office building catches Prompto’s eye.  
After they’ve cleared the daemons from the intersection, he runs over to get a closer look. As he’d hoped, it’s an Ebony machine.

“Don’t look, Noct!” He shouts, pulling lock-picks out of his pocket. “Nothing to see here.” 

“Huh?” Noctis walks closer.

Ignis asks, “What on Eos is he doing now?” 

“Breaking and entering,” Gladio answers. “What else is new?”

Noctis places a hand on Prompto’s shoulder. “What’s the meaning of this, Crown Citizen?”

“ _C’mon_ , I thought you said you’d pardon us for our crimes?” Prompto grins, and gives Noctis a quick peck before the lock clicks open in record time. 

He’s feeling very cool, right up until the security alarm sounds. 

“Quick! Give me some yen!” Prompto holds out his hands.

“What? I don’t have any!” Noctis laughs. “You’re going to call all the daemons in Insomnia over here, what are you doing?”

“Look! Ebony!” Prompto points into the lobby. 

That’s when Ignis joins them at the door, and hands Prompto a bill. “Black, if you please.” He smiles. “It’s less likely to have gone off, though it’s certainly at least eight years past the expiry date.”

“You got it!” Prompto runs inside, past a security desk and long-dead potted plants to the machine—still lit up and operational. Then he buys a decade-old can of Ebony Black.

They move a safe distance away from the calamity of the office building before Ignis pops open the can. 

The three of them watch with rapt attention as he takes the first sip. He frowns a little, tilts his head to one side, and the other. Then he sips again. 

“It’s not that bad, actually,” Ignis proclaims, to immediate cheers from the others. “Thank you, Prompto.” 

Gladio shakes his head, laughing. “Gotta appreciate those small victories.”

—

They say it’s lucky the elevator’s working. Nobody wants to walk up all those stairs—especially after fighting a literal god.

What they don’t say is that it’s just that much less time together, before the end.

As they’re about to go through the throne room doors—to confront the man who’s been pulling all the strings—Noctis stops, and turns around. 

He asks to see the photos from their trip, which Prompto has in his coat pocket. The friends look through the stack together, describing the images so Ignis can see them, too. They remember places and people and events that feel like they happened a lifetime ago. 

Finally, Noctis picks one. It’s the four of them at Wiz’s Chocobo Outpost, posing in front of the birds on a sunny day. They all look really happy, because they were.

Stashing the photo, Noctis looks at his friends with graceful determination. Then, with a deep breath, he leads them inside.

—

This is it. This is really, truly, fucking _it_.

Noctis defeated Ardyn in the throne room, while the three of them lay passed out and helpless on the floor. Now he’s going somewhere they can’t follow, to do what everybody’s been telling him his whole life he’s meant to do. 

He’s going to save the world. 

He’s going to die.

But in this moment at least—in the cold rain, in the imposing presence of the Citadel—Noctis is still here, standing in front of them. 

First he embraces Ignis, and they share some quiet words. Then Gladio hugs him fiercely, and he squeezes back with a rough laugh. Finally, he turns his eyes to his best friend. 

Noctis starts to speak, but Prompto cuts him off with a desperate, tear-drenched kiss. Whatever it was, he doesn’t think he can stand to hear it. 

It’s too hard to say goodbye, so instead Noctis says, “Walk tall, my friends.” 

He must be thinking of his father. He looks so calm. He looks so brave. 

They watch as their king—their beloved friend—ascends the stone steps towards his destiny.

They know he isn’t coming back. 

It’s hard as hell, but they manage to turn their backs to him, so they can face the wave of daemons that’s coming whether they’re ready or not.

The three of them will fight through their sorrow.

They’ll fight as long as they have to.

They’ll fight until the dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Noctis asking Prompto about his scars is a headcanon that I got from [bean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgrey_milktea/pseuds/earlgrey_milktea), in [i wanna be the place you call home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15039200) and [Asidian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/pseuds/Asidian), in [ The Way They Were](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9540920?view_full_work=true). These are amazing fics. Read them if you haven't already.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, big thanks to the folks on the [r/FFXV discord](https://discord.gg/FFXV) (who have forgotten more lore and canon than I will ever know) and the FFXV writer's discord for all your feedback and encouragement and creative ideas.


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